


We’ve Been in Love Forever

by Bittersweet_in_Boston, profoundalpacakitten



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Beautiful English shepherds, Brooklyn Heights, Deja Vu, Dreams as premonitions, Fairy godfather Nick Fury (?), Fancy overnight bags, Fashion Shows, Grad student/model Bucky Barnes, Kissing, Krzysztof Kieślowski, Law clerk Steve Rogers, M/M, Mystical Realism, New York Harbor, Soulmates, Staten Island Ferry, They keep just missing each other, Trois Couleurs-Rouge/Three Colors-Red AU, US Coast Guard, brief references to sex, everything is connected, shitty boyfriends, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bittersweet_in_Boston/pseuds/Bittersweet_in_Boston, https://archiveofourown.org/users/profoundalpacakitten/pseuds/profoundalpacakitten
Summary: Bucky is a grad student and part-time model. Steve is a law clerk and aspiring judge. They live three blocks apart in Brooklyn Heights and are stuck in unhealthy relationships with guys who don’t appreciate them as they deserve. They live just out of view of each other, until late one night when they almost meet...and early one morning when they finally come together in an unexpected - and unexpectedly dramatic - way. A mysterious recluse named Nick Fury and his beautiful dog Bella may or may not have something/everything to do with all this.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 125
Kudos: 136
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. But We Were on Different Sides

**Author's Note:**

> So here’s my NASBB fic! It is very like other Stucky fics I’ve written in that it is modern/no powers, and it’s very unlike other fics I’ve written in that it is based on an obscure French/Polish movie From 1995 called Trois Couleurs - Rouge (Three Colors - Red), written by Krzysztof Kieslowski. This movie is one of my favorites of all time because I’m a pretentious bitch, and I wanted to create an homage to the central idea of the film, which is that we’re all connected through our shared humanity. 
> 
> Huge thanks to my amazing artist and collaborator  Alpaca & Kittens  who did all the incredible artwork and helped me through all the weeks of author panic and dealing with the ins and outs of my first Stucky challenge. Merci, mon amie! 
> 
> More huge thanks to my beta, my lovely friend Krista/Bear, who advised me on all the law school/law clerking/bar exam logistics and helped beat my prose into shape. Merci a toi aussi, ma chere!
> 
> The last seven months have been terrible and challenging, for me personally as well as for the world as we deal with pandemics and injustice and those who would keep us from sharing our love and living our truth. This story has helped inspire me and keep me going even on days of struggle and darkness. I hope it can do the same for others. xoxo

Prologue: I just let you walk away

May 2018

_Early May and the sun is bright and even in the middle of New York City you can smell the scent of fresh earth and new things growing. Steve is walking down Cranberry Street carrying his messenger bag. He was going to study for his upcoming Federal Jurisdiction exam at home but it’s too beautiful outside and his heart calls out for the park._

_He’s walking down the street and wishing his Fed Jur textbook was a little smaller and a little lighter, as it barely fits in his bag and his bag bumps awkwardly against his hip. But whatever, Steve is still really happy with his decision to get outside for a bit._

_Steve is just coming up to the corner of Cranberry and Hicks when he catches sight of the most beautiful man he’s ever met walking toward him. This man is tall and willowy, with shoulder-length dark hair and piercing blue eyes - or are they grey?_

_As much as he’s head over heels in love with Jack, Steve can appreciate physical perfection when he sees it. He smiles at the man and - wonder of wonders! - the man smiles back as they get close, his blue-grey eyes bright._

_Steve is so caught up in that smile that he isn’t looking where he’s going. As he walks toward the man, the toe of his shoe catches on the uneven sidewalk and he trips, arms flailing to regain his balance. His messenger bag tips forward as he stumbles and his Fed Jur book falls to the ground, landing splayed open on the pavement, cover facing up._

_“Fuck,” Steve mutters. He steadies himself and is about to lean down to pick up his book, but the beautiful man has beaten him to it. The man crouches on the sidewalk to grab the book and stands up. A light breeze kicks up and surrounds them both as he holds the book out to Steve, still open to the page it landed on when it fell._

_“Here you go,” the man says, and looking a bit concerned, continues. “Are you OK?”_

_Steve takes the book and gets uncharacteristically tongue-tied for a moment before managing to sputter out, “Y-yeah...yeah, I’m fine. Just wasn’t looking where I was going.” He lifts up a book a little and says, “Th-thanks for picking this up.”_

_The guy grins and says, “Sure, no problem.” He puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Be careful, OK? Take care.”_

_“Thanks, you too,” Steve says quickly as the man keeps walking past him down Cranberry toward Henry Street. For a minute Steve just stands there, regaining his composure. He can still feel his shoulder tingling from the pressure of the gorgeous man’s hand. It makes him feel warm and happy all over._

_And suddenly, rather than just closing the book and putting it away, he looks at the page the book opened to when it fell, where it had stayed open when the man handed it back to him. People stream around him as he skims the paragraphs and smiles. He dogears the page before putting the book back in his bag and proceeds to the park, where he reads through the case on that page and the following pages and takes extensive notes._

_A week later one of the main essays on his Fed Jur exam focuses on that case, and Steve aces the test. When he gets the grade back after the end of the semester, he takes Sam and Nat out for celebration pizza and beer._

_“Great job, man!” Sam says proudly, reaching over to hit Steve’s shoulder from the other side of the booth. “I heard that no one knew what case old Pym was going to use for that essay question - you must’ve killed yourself studying the whole casebook!”_

_Steve pauses for a moment, remembering what happened weeks ago with that beautiful man on the corner of Cranberry and Hicks. He decides that it’s too weird to share with Sam and Nat, and that they wouldn’t believe him if he told them._

_“Yeah, it was brutal,” he says, a smile spreading across his face. He picks up his beer and takes a sip._

Chapter 1: But We Were on Different Sides

May 2019

“Oh shit.” 

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes strides down Henry Street toward the Clark Street subway station and looks anxiously at the sky. A stiff breeze has arisen and the dark clouds overhead make it clear that it’s going to rain any second. It’s late May and fairly warm so Bucky wouldn’t get chilled if he got wet, but he’s off to a photo shoot and doesn’t want to get there with damp hair. And of course he forgot his umbrella at home.

Bucky’s 29 and just finished the first year of his Masters at Columbia for biomedical engineering. He was in the military after doing ROTC at college and came this close to losing his left arm on a tour in Afghanistan, so when he’s done with grad school he wants to make prosthetics and medical devices for those who weren’t as lucky as he was, especially veterans. He’s been a research assistant this year for his professor at Columbia, James Rhodes, and will start a summer internship at Stark Industries next week. 

Bucky used to live in grad student housing up near the university, but his friend Howard offered him the sublet of his lovely third-floor studio above Heights Vision on Montague Street while Howard is on an overseas fellowship in Germany. Bucky took it in a flash. It’s a (much) longer commute to school, but totally worth it to live in such a nice apartment in such a wonderful neighborhood. He wouldn’t trade it for anything and occasionally wishes he could live there permanently. 

So why the photo shoot? Bucky’s also a part-time model on the side to make some extra cash. His friend Gabe from the Army hooked him up with an agent who gets him local gigs that pay well. It’s a definite benefit to living in New York, where the fashion and media businesses are so strong. He quickens his pace to try to beat the rain to the subway...

...but he’s half a block short. The sky opens up while he’s running toward the station and as he has no umbrella, he gets soaked. Damnit. There’s not much he can do about his clothes and laptop bag, but he tries to wring out his hair as he walks down the escalator to the train. At least his computer’s in a waterproof sleeve inside his bag.

As Bucky’s headed down the escalator, he catches a familiar face out of the corner of his eye coming up the escalator from the subway. He turns his head to see a tall, gorgeous guy in business casual clothes with dirty blond hair and an intense, worried expression. He’s worth looking at, and Bucky doesn’t think he knows him, but somehow he looks familiar. The guy notices him looking, turns his head and his face lights up in a million-dollar smile. Bucky reflexively smiles back and he still feels warm and happy from seeing this man when he gets on the train. 

His hair is still damp when he reaches the photo shoot, at the studio of an up-and-coming designer in Soho, but that’s mostly because there’s so much of it. Bucky’s dark brown hair is a little wavy and reaches just past his shoulders. It’s not the traditional look for an engineer or a military man, and often it’s a giant pain in the ass, but he keeps it long because it gets him modeling gigs. The hair, combined with his grey-blue eyes and high cheekbones, is a huge attraction for clients, his agent tells him. 

He also keeps it long because Brock once told Bucky he liked it, and Bucky’s fully smitten and working very hard to do things Brock likes to keep him around. Well, to be honest, Brock’s not really around, but that’s a story for later. 

“Hey,” he says as he rushes into the studio, a few minutes early for the shoot. Kate Bishop, the designer, and her assistant are there waiting for him and smile as he walks in the door. 

“Sorry I’m all wet,” he says, grimacing and brushing his hair back from his face. “Got caught in the rain just before I hit the subway. I can run down to Duane Reade and grab a hair dryer if you don’t have one.” 

“No worries,” Kate says, studying him, her head on one side. “Actually, I think I like the wet hair look for the shoot. Go see Angie for makeup and wardrobe - the photographer should be here any minute.” 

When Bucky comes out of the back room in his first outfit, he meets Jessica Jones, the photographer. She looks him up and down as if she’s assessing a prime cut of beef. Bucky just stands there patiently - photographers ogle him all the time before shoots and he’s used to this part of the modeling business. 

Jessica poses him in front of the backdrop and has him do the usual Blue Steel kinds of expressions for the first few outfits. Then when he comes out of the back room in his fifth ensemble, she tries something different. 

“Think of something sad,” Jessica commands. “You’re staring over my shoulder and you’re really down about something.” 

Bucky hesitates for a moment ( _sad? What the fuck?_ ) but then follows her orders. He’s not even sure what he’s thinking about - his war injury? His dad’s death? His aching loneliness? - but suddenly a well of sadness bubbles up in him and he’s damn near crying. His eyes are shiny and he opens his mouth a little, breathing heavily.

“Yes! Fuck! Yes!” yells Jessica, clicking away with her high-end digital camera. As Bucky continues to emote he catches a glimpse of Kate behind her, looking extremely impressed but also a bit concerned. A few minutes later Jessica has gotten her “sad” shots and Bucky goes to change his clothes again. 

The rest of the shoot passes without incident and Bucky changes into his own jeans and short-sleeved button-down in the dressing room, checking his appearance in the mirror. The scars down his left arm to his elbow are hardly noticeable and he’s so used to them now that he ignores them as he changes. When he goes out to see Kate and say goodbye, she’s looking at the saved photos on a large iPad. 

“This is it,” she says, gesturing at the screen. “This is the one we’ll use for the subway and bus billboards and the featured online photo.” Bucky looks, and it’s one of the ones where he’s almost crying, eyes fixed and shiny, mouth slightly parted. 

“Holy shit,” he says, at a loss for words. He’s never seen a fashion picture like this before. Jessica smiles smugly at him from across the room. 

“Yep,” she says. Kate’s assistant brings her a shopping bag, which she hands to Bucky.

“I’m wiring your fee right to your account,” she says. “But here’s a little something extra. As a thank-you.” When Bucky looks confused, she goes on, “It’s the outfit from that shot. You look amazing, and it’s going to sell like crazy.” 

Bucky can hardly remember those clothes now - burgundy button up shirt? Black patterned twill pants? Something. But hey, he’ll take an extra outfit any day, especially when it’s designer. He thanks Kate and heads for the door, planning to grab something to eat before heading uptown to meet with Professor Rhodes at Columbia. Jessica follows him outside. The rain has passed but the sky is still overcast and steely grey and the air is humid. 

“Hey James,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Want to grab a coffee? Or go to my place? I only live a few blocks from here.” 

While a decent number of people stare at Bucky on the street and on the subway and look like they’d like to ask him out, it’s rare that he gets this kind of direct proposition and his brain stumbles a bit. 

“Uh, thanks,” he says after a moment, as gently as he can, trying not to burn any professional bridges. “But I gotta get uptown to meet my professor about my internship. And...” he continues, cutting her off as she opens her mouth to reply, “I gotta check in with my boyfriend.” 

Now Jessica looks like her brain can’t process this information. “You have a boyfriend?” she says, disbelief threading through her voice. “I didn’t read you as gay.” 

“That’s because I’m bi,” Bucky says lightly. _And because not all queer people fit your stereotypes_ , he thinks but chooses not to say aloud. 

“Ah,” says Jessica, chastened. “Well, sorry to come on so strong, I just figured...”

“No worries,” says Bucky, smiling. “Hope we can work together again sometime?” His grin is infectious and after a few seconds Jessica is smiling too. 

“Absolutely,” she says, then salutes. “Take care, James.” 

“You too,” he replies, nodding and heading down the street. He shakes his head and smiles to himself, thinking about the interaction. Jessica is beautiful and confident. If he weren’t seeing someone, he’d probably take Jessica up on her offer. 

And then he remembers that he is seeing someone and needs to call him before he hits the subway and loses cell coverage. His heart skips a beat as he thinks of Brock.

Brock Rumlow. Bucky’s boyfriend is a bit older, 38, and very glamorous. He’s one of the top concert promoters in the world, and makes serious coin booking huge musical acts at premiere venues in the US and overseas. Bucky met him almost a year ago at a show at Terminal 5. He’s not generally a fan of concerts, loud noises not being his favorite thing these days after his time in the military, but his college buddy is a sound engineer at the hall and got him a ticket for an up-and-coming band. 

He met Brock at the first-floor bar after the show, and it was heart-eyes at first sight. Brock is tall, dark and built, more jacked than Bucky, who keeps a leaner physique for his modeling gigs. He basically swept Bucky off his feet, taking him out every night to fancy restaurants and clubs, treating him like a prince. At the time Bucky had just gotten into Columbia and was perennially short on cash, so having a rich, handsome, sophisticated boyfriend was like a dream come true. 

After three weeks of spoiling Bucky in New York, Brock had to head off to London for a week and then to Singapore. Now he travels most of the time but he calls and texts Bucky frequently. Well, OK...Brock sometimes texts and he sometimes even answers the phone when Bucky FaceTimes him. 

And Brock always takes time to make things up to Bucky and spoil him whenever he’s in New York. Well, OK...he did spoil him for those first six months or so and now he still does take him out for dinner when he’s in town. Usually. Brock did take Bucky to that awesome sushi place downtown back in April. And he was going to take Bucky out earlier in May but he had to cancel at the last minute.

Sometimes when Brock is in the city he just texts Bucky to come over to his place on the Upper East Side for late-night canoodling, which Bucky loves. No really, it’s great to see Brock and catch up for a few minutes and then have Brock rail him into next week and slap his ass afterward. He feels really close to his boyfriend then. Well, OK...Brock doesn’t usually let Bucky sleep over when they have sex but it’s not that big a deal to get the late-night subway back to Brooklyn. It’s fine. Really. 

But it’s been a week or two since they talked and Brock’s in Milan this week, so now on the street in Soho, Bucky calls Brock to say hi. Or at least he tries to call him, but gets no answer. He leaves a cute and short but hopefully totally not needy voicemail and then texts him as he heads down the stairs into the subway. 

As Bucky goes through the turnstile and heads toward the platform, a damp, chill wind blows down the tunnel through the station. That spring of sadness he felt during the clothing shoot bubbles up from his gut again and a voice that is definitely not his own rings through his head.

 _He doesn’t love you,_ the voice whispers. _You need to get out._

Bucky’s eyes go blurry and grey out for an instant and he has to steady himself against the pillar to avoid stumbling forward toward the tracks. He shakes his head to clear his vision and firmly reassures himself. 

_Of course he loves me,_ Bucky whispers back in his mind. _He’s just...busy._ And until the train arrives, he repeats _he loves me, he loves me, he loves me_ over and over to himself as a calming mantra. After several minutes he’s convinced that this is the truth. And besides, he really can’t afford to have a full-blown meltdown right now. The train arrives and he takes a deep breath of stale subway station air and walks into the car. 

As Bucky rides the train uptown, he stays glued to his phone and gets his hopes up that he’ll get a text back from Brock despite the MTA’s fabulously sporadic wifi service.

At one point, just outside the Columbus Circle station, he sees the three dots appear under his text and his heart pangs in his chest. Brock’s gonna send him a message! His spirits rise and a warm feeling pools in his gut. 

But by the time he gets cell service back at 116th Street near the university, the dots are gone and only his own emoji-laden text stares up at him from the screen. 

  
  


It’s a rainy afternoon and Steve Rogers exits the train at Clark Street station in Brooklyn. He’s just coming back from having lunch with his advisor and has to do some errands before heading home. He lives two blocks from Bucky on Monroe Place, in a small two-bedroom apartment with his law school buddies, Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanov, who is also Sam’s girlfriend. 

Steve, Sam, and Natasha all went to NYU Law together and just graduated. It’s been a brutal spring, as they’ve all been working hard to pass their final classes and get their JDs. The next step is the New York bar exam, which will take place at the end of July. That’s almost two months off, but Steve knows that time will fly between now and then so he’s already started studying. 

As Steve walks down the subway platform toward the exit, he’s thinking about the next step in his career, which is clerking for the Hon. Abraham Erskine, a senior judge on the United States Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit. He worked really hard to get this clerkship, which is incredibly prestigious, but he’s hoping he can parlay it into a Supreme Court clerkship the following year. He’s almost 29, did ROTC in college and spent time in the military, but left to go to law school. 

It’s rare to find these days, but Steve’s an idealist - he believes in truth and democracy and his friends often joke that he should have JUSTICE tattooed on his chest - and his ultimate career goal is to become a judge himself. 

But first Steve has to make some money to pay off his frighteningly large student loans, so after his clerkship (or after the Supreme Court clerkship, hey, a guy can dream!) he’s taken a lucrative position as an associate at a big corporate firm in midtown. Steve didn’t come from wealth and his only family was his mom, who died of cancer a few years ago when Steve was still in the service. But he hopes to pursue the judicial career path once his loans are (mostly) paid off.

Steve rides up the escalator at Clark Street. He’s preoccupied with his own shit but someone enters his peripheral vision and he turns his head. A slim, gorgeous guy is staring at him from the down escalator. He’s wringing out his long, dark chestnut hair (is it raining already?) but he’s looking right at Steve as if he knows him. Does he know Steve? He looks familiar but Steve can’t place him. He’s definitely worth looking at, though, _damn_ he’s gorgeous. Steve smiles at him, and he smiles back. The warmth in that smile carries Steve out of the subway and onto the street, where it is, indeed, raining.

As Steve runs out of the rain into Careland Pharmacy, he texts Sam and Nat on the group chat to see if they need anything, because he’s nice and considerate like that. In fact, Nat often tells him that he’s too nice and considerate, especially with Jack, especially after she’s had a few glasses of wine, but that’s a story for later. 

_  
  
_

**Steve**

_Need anything from Careland for the big trip_

_  
  
_

Thirty seconds later he gets a text back from Nat. 

_  
  
_

**Nat**

_No thanks see you soon_

_  
  
  
_

Sam and Nat are traveling around Europe this summer and have deferred their work start dates to late August. They’re also clerking for federal judges for a year - on the District Court for the Southern District of New York - before starting associate jobs themselves the following year. Somehow Sam and Nat managed to convince their new employers to let them defer their bar exam until next February so they could take this trip - Steve suspects that Natasha managed to wangle this through Professor Pym, who is old friends with most if not all of the judges presiding over New York courtrooms. 

Their flight leaves JFK tomorrow night, so tonight Steve is taking them to Ozu for “Hooray we got our degrees/have a great time in Europe!” sushi. Steve doesn’t quite exactly know where they’re going, but Sam says they’re spending some time in Paris (“City of Love, Steve, City of Love!”) and Nat has talked vaguely about a house that family friends own on the Dalmatian coast. Steve adores his roommates and would love to fuck around Europe with them this summer, but his budget won’t let him. 

And then there’s Jack. He absolutely can’t be away from Jack for that long. 

Jack Rollins. Steve’s boyfriend is just a year older, but he graduated from NYU Law two years ago. Steve got to know him in his first year of law school - they were sort of friends of friends - but they didn’t start dating until they met up again at an alumni cocktail party after Jack had graduated. They’ve been together for almost 18 months now and Steve is wildly in love. 

Jack is a third-year associate at the same corporate firm that Sam will join in just over a year. He’s funny and confident, with dark hair and eyes that offset Steve’s blond and blue-eyed looks, and he’s almost as tall and built as Steve. (Steve loves the gym, OK? He’s used to keeping in shape from his military days, and working out is a perfect way for him to relieve the stresses of school and life.)

As Steve comes out of Careland with his toothpaste and his Old Spice and his peppermint Altoids, along with gum and a package of earplugs for Sam and Nat for the plane (See? Nice and considerate), he sees with relief that the rain is letting up. He thinks about Jack and his heart flutters a little. 

In fact, Steve is so in love that he’s thinking about how and when he can have The DTR Talk with Jack about taking their relationship to the next level. He’s been planning this for a while, but Jack has canceled their last two dinner dates, pleading late nights at the office. 

Steve totally understands! He’s getting ready for crazy hours himself when he starts his new job in a couple of weeks. And besides, Jack still calls him to come over to his place on the Upper East Side for late-night canoodling, which Steve loves. No really, it’s great to see Jack and have Jack insist that Steve rail him into next week and then slap Steve’s ass afterward. He feels really close to his boyfriend then. 

And Jack wasn’t even too mad that time two weeks ago when he texted Steve for a late night booty call and Steve didn’t answer til morning because it was the night before his last final exam and he had gone to bed early. Jack probably just forgot it was Steve’s last final - I mean, Steve only told him like six or seven times. Earlier that day. Steve probably should have texted him again that night. 

Thinking about Jack as he walks down the street towards home, Steve grins and pulls out his phone to text him. 

_  
  
_

**Steve**

_Can’t wait for dinner tomorrow night_ 😍

_  
  
_

After a minute, Steve’s phone buzzes. 

🥰 **Jack** 🥰 (yes, Steve has saved Jack in his phone as heart emojis because he’s that lovesick sap)

_Can’t do tomorrow night let’s meet tonight_

_  
  
  
_

Steve’s heart plummets as he reads this message and he hits a button on his phone to call Jack. 

“Hey babe,” he says, trying to make his voice sound positive and upbeat. “Yeah, I can’t do tonight, remember, it’s Sam and Nat’s last night before they leave for Europe and I’m taking them for sushi.” He pauses for a second.

“You could come with us tonight if you want,” he says, and now his voice sounds a little more unsure. Sam and Nat are not as enamored with Jack as Steve is - Nat in particular has voiced her disdain out loud and made it clear that she thinks Steve deserves better - and the dynamic is a little weird and awkward when they go out as a foursome. Even Steve is not so blindly lovestruck that he doesn’t notice _that_. 

“Nah, I don’t want to get in the way of your little roommate party,” says Jack. “But I can’t tomorrow. My boss just set up this big client dinner and I have to be there. Huge case.” 

“Ah, OK, got it,” says Steve, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Hey, let’s plan to get together over the weekend.” 

“Yeah, sounds good,” says Jack. His voice sounds almost absent, like his mind is already focused on something else. “Hey Steve, gotta go. Talk to you soon.” 

“OK, talk to you soon, babe, lo—“ his voice stutters as Jack hangs up. “—ve you,” he mutters to himself. He sighs as he nears his apartment steps. It’s grey and humid and overcast after the rain shower. A sudden gust of wind snakes down Monroe Place carrying a voice that seems to say, _He doesn’t love you, move on, move on, move on..._

Steve chokes up as he hears this. But he’s nothing if not loyal and screws up his eyes and clenches his jaw as he repeats to himself in his head, _he_ _does love me, he does love me, he does love me..._

As he bounds up the stairs to his front door, he resolves to say nothing to his roommates about any of that - the texting, the conversation with Jack, the mysterious wind voice. And then he consciously puts the whole incident out of his mind. It was a momentary lapse and he - and his love for Jack - are stronger than that. And besides, they don’t need to know. Natasha is already dubious enough about Jack. She doesn’t need any more ammunition. 


	2. Don’t Leave Me Lost Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky rescues a beautiful dog after two men in a Range Rover run it over. After getting blown off by her owner, he takes the dog to the vet, where he sees someone familiar outside and gets another surprise.
> 
> Steve walks down the street in Brooklyn Heights wondering why his boyfriend Jack stood him up for a date, and remembers the angel who picked up his law textbook more than a year earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief reference to animal in peril and wounded (although she’s OK, promise!). Her owner seems kind of like a dickhead, though.

_ Though he say he got a girl _

_ Yeah it’s true you got a man _

_ But the party ain’t gon’ stop _

_ So let’s make it hot hot _

  
  


Bucky sings along to Destiny’s Child as he runs down Old Fulton Street. He likes all kinds of music but for his workouts it’s all about the early 2000s R&B he loved in middle school. He’s just run around Whitman Park and is headed toward Anchorage Plaza, intent on running along the waterfront before heading home. 

It’s a late June evening a few weeks after Bucky’s photo shoot in Soho. He doesn’t usually run in the evenings but for some reason his phone alarm didn’t go off this morning, so he had just enough time to shower and run off to his internship at Stark Industries. He runs every day, to burn off stress and to stay in shape for modeling. 

And speaking of modeling, his ads for the new Kate Bishop menswear line have come out - that was fast work, Jessica! - and are starting to show up at subway and bus stops around the city. He caught someone staring back and forth between him and the ad at Grand Central earlier today. It’s kind of embarrassing, but Bucky has to admit that he really does look good in that deep burgundy shirt. 

As he runs down the street and Beyoncé warbles about your new outfit and your Fendi shoes, Bucky remembers that tomorrow he needs to hit the gym as well as run - his agent texted and told him he’s shooting a shirtless men’s fragrance ad next week. Gotta pump up those guns and pecs! He sighs inwardly. At least now he has access to the frankly next-level Stark Industries fitness center in midtown and can get that lifting done right after work. 

So far his internship is going well, though it’s only been a few weeks. Brock hasn’t been available much lately except for some light sexting, but he’s now in Miami in the same time zone, and Bucky managed to catch him last night and told him a bit about the new job. Unfortunately they could only talk for ten minutes before Brock had to go, but he sounded really encouraging when he wasn’t distracted. Bucky gets a warm feeling in his gut thinking about his boyfriend - maybe he’ll get a text later tonight? 

As Bucky runs down the sidewalk past Anchorage Plaza, he sees something in the road to his left out of the corner of his eye. It’s a beautiful dog, medium-sized, black and caramel colored, and very fluffy. And it’s sitting motionless in the middle of the street.

Bucky stops and looks around, but there’s no one in the park, no potential owner to be seen anywhere. Maybe it has some tags on its collar. He turns off his playlist and takes out his earbuds, then calls to the dog. 

“Here, pup! C’mere!” Bucky waves at the dog. It cocks its head at him, but doesn’t move. Car headlights appear down the street, and Bucky’s voice and movement get more urgent. 

“Come on, dog! COME!” yells Bucky as the car gets closer. By this time it’s obvious that the driver of the car, a dark-colored Range Rover, going too fast for this side street. The dog looks around and pulls its hind legs up to standing, but it still doesn’t obey Bucky’s command. The car is almost upon them.

In desperation, Bucky leaps into the street to signal to the car. 

“Slow down!” he yells, waving his arms. The driver blows the horn at him loud and strong, and Bucky jumps back as he hears a sickening thump. In that moment he can see into the SUV for a split second as it drives past - two men, an older greyish-blond man at the wheel and a younger dark-haired guy in the passenger seat. They barely look at him as they careen past and take the on-ramp to the Brooklyn Bridge. 

Bucky’s anger spikes and he feels like he’s going to be sick. And he’s incredibly worried about the dog. He’s tempted to run after the car and flip off the two guys, but decides that won’t do any good and could only lead to more trouble. Instead he turns toward the animal. 

The dog is lying on its side. It’s whimpering and shaking but is obviously still alive. Bucky talks softly to it as he approaches. 

“It’s OK,” he says, trying to make his shaking voice more reassuring. “It’ll be OK. Let me look at you.” He makes a quick scan of the dog - there’s a big gash on its back right haunch that’s bleeding freely, but otherwise it looks unhurt. Bucky worries that it could have a broken leg or pelvis and for a minute he’s scared to move it, but there are other cars around and he doesn’t want to stay in the street. 

He decides to risk it and carefully pulls the dog into his arms. The dog isn’t that heavy but it’s heavy enough, and for once Bucky’s glad for all the lifting he does at the gym. As he returns to the sidewalk, the dog lifts its head and looks him full in the eyes. Then it licks his cheek. 

Bucky’s heart turns over and he kisses the dog on the forehead. “Sweet pup,” he says. He gently lays the dog on the grass of the plaza and turns on his phone flashlight to look for a collar and tags, which he finds quickly. 

BELLA

718-555-6041

“Aww, Bella, my good, sweet girl,” murmurs Bucky in a voice of honey, and Bella wags her tail a few times. He calls the number on the tag and hopes the owner will pick up even if they don’t recognize the number.

“Fury here,” says a taciturn voice after a few rings. It sounds like an older man.

“Hi there, sir,” says Bucky in as friendly a tone as he can muster when he’s sweating and panicky with dog blood soaking his running shorts. “I’ve got your dog Bella and she’s been hit by a car. Can I bring her to you or do you want to come get her?” 

There’s a pause on the line and then the voice answers, dour and curt: “It’s not my problem. I don’t care. You should just keep her.” 

A second stab of anger runs through Bucky and he feels like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. Bella looks at him trustingly with big brown eyes, which only makes him angrier.

“What do you mean, Mr. Fury?” he says sharply. “This is your dog, she’s not just a thing that you can just throw away.”

“I told you I don’t care, deal with it yourself,” says Fury, just as sharply, and his voice cuts through Bucky like a knife. 

“If your daughter had been run over, would you say the same thing?” Bucky retorts, biting off the words acidly. 

“I don’t have any children, pal,” Fury says, and hangs up. 

Bucky just looks at his phone in shock for a minute, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in an effort to calm down. He hasn’t been this angry in a long time. Weirdly enough it almost feels good to sense the rage sparking through his body, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He feels supercharged. And powerful. At that moment a little whimper cuts through the emotion. 

Bucky opens his eyes, and sees Bella staring solemnly at him. He puts his hand out to her. She raises her cunning little caramel-colored eyebrows at him, then licks his hand twice. His heart melts and his resolve strengthens. Even if he’s been dealing with heartless assholes for the last 15 minutes, it doesn’t mean he has to be one. 

“Well, Bella,” Bucky laughs ruefully, his mouth dry and his eyes a little watery as his body processes all the intense emotions. “It looks like your owner isn’t interested in taking care of you. Let’s get you patched up.”

Just over an hour later Bucky’s sitting in the waiting room of the Brooklyn Heights Veterinary Hospital. He lucked out; the vet is only a few blocks from Anchorage Plaza and not much farther than that from his apartment. They were able to take Bella in right away, but didn’t tell him how long it would take. Right now he’s not only worried about the dog, he’s also uncomfortable, clothed only in sweaty workout gear and shivering in the air conditioning. 

Bucky is just debating whether he should run home to shower and change (and grab his wallet) when he gets a strange feeling that he’s being watched and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. There’s no one else in the waiting room so he turns toward the window. 

A guy in a business suit is leaning over and grabbing his knees right on the other side of the glass, looking toward Bucky, his blond hair, face, and torso lit up by the streetlight and showing sharp against the glass. Is he sick? Does he need help? His face looks familiar, somehow...does Bucky know him from school? Or from modeling? He could absolutely be a model, with those full lips and classic nose, a little crooked, and those intense blue eyes...

Bucky stands up and is about to head outside to talk to the guy to make sure he’s OK when he hears a short, sharp bark and turns abruptly to see the vet coming out to see him. She’s tall and slim, with brown eyes and a kind face, her blonde hair tied up in a messy ponytail.

“Mr. Barnes?” she says, reaching out to shake his hand. Bucky puts the guy outside out of his mind and focuses on the vet. 

“Bucky,” he replies, looking at her nametag, which reads DR. SHARON CARTER. “How is Bella, Dr. Carter?” 

“Sharon,” Dr. Carter answers warmly, and Bucky nods. “Bella is doing fine,” she continues. “She had a bad cut on her back leg, as you saw, and we sedated her and stitched that up. We’ll give you some antibiotics and a topical salve to keep the wound clean and keep her from licking it. As long as she’s healing well, you should be able to take her out walking again in a few days.”

“OK, I can do that,” says Bucky, his head spinning a little. Now that it seems Bella will be alright, he’s starting to get overwhelmed with the idea of taking care of her. He’s also wondering how much this vet visit is going to cost him, as he doesn’t have piles of extra cash lying around. 

But he thinks of Bella’s sweet face, so loving and trusting, and those adorable eyebrows, and feels more resolve. He can do this. 

Sharon goes on. “We did some x-rays and they showed no broken bones...” 

“Thank goodness,” Bucky cuts in. “I was so worried.”

“But,” Sharon continues, a little hesitantly. “The x-rays did show something else.” 

“What’s that?” Bucky asks.

“Bella is pregnant,” says Sharon. 

Bucky pauses for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Oh,” he says. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


“Hey babe,” says Steve into the phone, trying his best to sound light and casual. “Sorry it didn’t work out to get dinner tonight, call or text when you get a chance.” 

It’s a beautiful evening in late June, and Steve is on the escalator to the street at Clark Street station and trying not to worry or freak out. He was scheduled to meet Jack for dinner tonight near Jack’s office in midtown, nothing too fancy, just beer and burgers at a local pub, but Jack never showed. 

They were supposed to meet so Steve could tell Jack all about his clerkship with Judge Erskine. He just started the job a couple of weeks ago but he’s busy and doing really interesting work for Erskine, who is exactly the kind of mentor he was hoping to have, stern and demanding but also kind and very concerned about the people involved in his cases. After just two weeks, Steve is more than ever convinced that his long-term career decision to become a judge is the right one. And he was so excited to share this news with his boyfriend. 

Steve had checked his phone every minute or so while waiting for Jack at the bar, waiting for a text, any text:  _ working late _ or  _ be there soon _ or even  _ can’t make it,  _ but...nothing. This time there’s been radio silence, even after Steve left several texts and the voice message. 

Finally Steve had realized that Jack wasn’t going to show up at the pub and wasn’t going to leave a message about his whereabouts either. Steve had sighed and put the bartender out of his misery, ordering a burger to eat with the one beer he’d been nursing for an hour and a half. 

Now he’s taken the subway home and exits the station into the warm evening air. Rather than go straight home, he decides to walk up to Brooklyn Bridge Park. Get some blood flowing. Take in the view. Clear his head. 

And holy shit, Steve’s head really needs clearing. He’s been worried about Jack for the last couple of hours - did something happen to him? Did he get mugged? Hit by a bus? Is he lying in the emergency room at Mount Sinai, all alone? Steve’s overly active imagination conjures a terrifying picture of his boyfriend, bloody and bruised, hooked up to machines, barely breathing...

_ NO _ .

Steve pushes this thought out of his mind, because of course he’s just working late and forgot to let Steve know. But then he kind of wishes he hadn’t, because now other thoughts crowd in. Other more suspicious and less loyal thoughts. Hey, it’s not like Jack hasn’t stood him up before - Jack does work ridiculous hours as a third-year associate after all - but he usually calls or at least texts when he doesn’t show. And Steve appreciates the communication, as much as it disappoints the shit out of him that he’ll be spending another night alone or with his roommates as a third wheel. 

But his roommates aren’t at their apartment this evening - they’re off in London or Paris or Croatia or wherever. So Steve’s apartment is empty; no hurry to get back there. And Jack hasn’t been in touch. What’s going on?  _ Hmm _ .

For one of the few times during their 18-month relationship, Steve allows himself to stop thinking the best of his boyfriend, stop giving him the benefit of the doubt all the time, and to start wondering what’s going on. Is he really busy with work? Or is it...something else? Someone else? As he walks up Henry Street and turns west on Cranberry toward the park, he hears a voice in his head. 

_ He’s with someone else. He doesn’t love you, Steve,  _ it whispers.  _ He doesn’t love you. _

It sounds a lot like the voice in his head that he heard a few weeks ago as he was coming out of the drugstore. And also maybe a little bit like Nat. After this evening Steve finds he doesn’t have the mental strength right now to fight back, to say,  _ No, that’s not true. _ The only thing he can manage right now is to walk faster down the street. 

Steve’s head is spinning and his breathing gets fast and shallow. Suddenly his vision starts to swim and he stops by the window on the street corner, leaning over to grab his knees so he doesn’t fall down, and looking into the glass. There aren’t many people around at this time of night but the ones who are around just pass around him, blasé as only New Yorkers can be. Steve is extra thankful for this as he starts tipping over into a panic attack. It’s a good thing he loosened his tie on the subway or he’d feel like he was choking.

As Steve is bending over, trying to calm himself, a gentle wind picks up from the river and ruffles his hair. It feels refreshing on his skin. Inside the veterinary clinic waiting room next to him, he sees someone turn in their seat to look out the window at him. He’d usually find this annoying but somehow it feels reassuring. At least someone cares. He’s about to turn his head to look at the person...

...when he hears one short, sharp bark from inside the clinic and, startled, he pulls up straight. The sudden movement pulls Steve’s phone from his pocket and it clatters to the ground but doesn’t break. Thank fuck for sturdy phone cases! As he reaches down to pick it up, he has the strongest moment of deja vu he’s ever had in his life, remembering that time last year when he was walking down this very street and saw that gorgeous guy and Steve’s FedJur textbook fell out of his bag and the guy picked it up... _ holy shit. _

Bending over to pick up his phone on this very same corner, the whole incident rushes back into Steve’s mind. It’s been over a year but every detail stands out in sharp relief. Except one - he can’t quite remember the beautiful man’s face, just his coloring. Long, dark hair...blue eyes (or were they grey?)...but it’s not important what he actually looks like. Just recalling this memorable and ultimately very fortunate occurrence has helped him calm down. 

Walking down the street toward the park, the light wind still in his face, Steve’s optimistic nature takes hold again. He’s sure that Jack is OK, that something came up to keep him from dinner and from texting Steve - probably an emergency with a client. He’ll probably hear from Jack later tonight or in the morning. It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Everything will be fine. Just fine. _So_ fine. 

Right before he enters the park near the bridge, Steve passes a bus stop. There’s a brand new ad in the glass wall of the shelter, something the teenagers haven’t defaced yet. Steve slows down to take it in.

  
  


KATE BISHOP

MENSWEAR

SOHO

www.katebishop.com 

  
  


_ Some overpriced designer bullshit, _ Steve thinks, inwardly rolling his eyes. But another glance at the photo forces him to do a double-take. 

It’s the beautiful man he met in the street a year ago when he dropped his law casebook. The guy looks like an angel, albeit an angel who got caught in the rain and whose dog just died. His hair is damp (but still gorgeous) and he looks like he’s about to cry. It’s odd, having a sad photo in a clothing advertisement, but Steve can’t deny that it’s effective, especially when it’s this guy. He looks amazing, and he makes the outfit look amazing, too.

Steve pauses and his heart turns over in his chest. For a brief instant he can feel this man’s hand on his shoulder again, and out of nowhere he wishes he had a copy of this photo to take home. Then he remembers his life and his boyfriend Jack, with whom he’s wildly in love. He chuckles to himself and walks on toward the park, shaking his head and grinning. The gentle breeze from the river swirls around him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bella is an English Shepherd, the domestic breed of the Border Collie. They are beautiful dogs, very smart, very loyal, very active, and very expressive. I made Bella and English Shepherd in memory of my husband’s childhood dog Marcie, who was an absolute sweetheart. 
> 
> Any guesses as to who the two guys in the Range Rover are?


	3. Haven’t We Met Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey sweetheart,” says a low, resonant voice with a rumble in it that, Brock or no Brock, lodges deep down in Bucky’s gut. That voice vibrates in his chest and sends a thrill up his spine. He thinks for a brief moment what it would be like to hear that voice say those words to him. He swallows hard.
> 
> Bucky meets Bella’s owner. Who is Nick Fury and why is he...like this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief worry about an escaped dog crossing the street. Introduction of character who at first seems to be a total jerkwad and has a disturbing habit of spying on his neighbors. Brief reference to M/M sex. Ongoing jerkwadliness from one Brock Rumlow.

“Ready, Bella?” Bucky looks at the dog. He’s just clipped a brand-new leash on her collar and they’re standing by the door of his apartment. Bella looks up at him and smiles, panting a little. 

It’s three days after Bucky rescued his new friend from the accident on Old Fulton Street, and his heart is now entirely Bella’s. She has been a total sweetheart. 

The vet bill was, as Bucky feared, very high - $1600 for x-rays and some stitches! - but Dr. Carter gave him a bag of dog food, two dog dishes with “Brooklyn Heights Veterinary Hospital” stamped on the side, and a year’s supply of Heartgard and Nexgard for free, so that helped some. She also lent Bucky a wagon to cart Bella home, which was great. Even though Bucky only lives 10 blocks from the vet, it’s a long way to carry a 40-pound animal.

And now Dr. Carter has given Bucky the OK to take her out on a short walk. Her back right haunch is still bandaged, but things are healing nicely. Bucky decides to take her up to Hillside Dog Park, not far from the plaza where he rescued her. If it’s too much, they can turn around or he can carry her home. 

As they’re about to leave the apartment, Bucky sees that a business envelope has been pushed under his front door, his name in block letters on the front. Forehead furrowed, he picks it up and opens it. Inside is $2000 in hundred-dollar bills. 

He stares at the money in confusion. What could this be for? Who could have left it? He has direct deposit for his internship and gets paid for his modeling gigs through his agent. He thinks for a moment about the vet bill, and then impulsively puts $400 in his jeans pocket. 

“Woof,” says Bella softly at his feet. Bucky leans down and skritches the soft fur on her head and around her ears. She leans ecstatically into his touch, and the look on her fuzzy face reduces Bucky’s confusion about the cash and sweetens the sour taste that remains in his mouth from his conversation with Brock last night. 

_ “Hey hon, I have exciting news,” says Bucky into the phone, sitting next to Bella on the floor as she reclines on her makeshift dog bed of extra pillows and blankets. He hasn’t had the chance to get her a crate yet - PetSmart isn’t that far away, but he’s been busy with his internship and getting ready for that shirtless perfume ad shoot.  _

_ “What’s that,” says Brock in a monotone, almost as if he’s only half-listening.  _

_ Bucky takes a deep breath. “I got a dog!” he says with enthusiasm. “Well, I mean, I rescued a dog, she was hit by a car in the street, and her owner didn’t want her, so I got her stitched up and adopted her. Her name is Bella.” He puts the phone on speaker. “Say hi, Bella!” _

_ Bella looks at the phone, confused, then looks at Bucky, smiles, and licks his hand. Bucky laughs - of course she doesn’t bark on command - and says, “Anyway...there you go. She’s really beautiful and sweet.”  _

_ “Bucky, what the fuck,” Brock’s tone drips with incredulity. “You’re kidding me, right?” _

_ “No,” Bucky answers in a low rebellious tone.  _

_ “How are you gonna take care of a dog?” Brock goes on. “You’ve got a job, and school, and me...what about that trip to St. Bart’s we were gonna take at the end of the summer? What’re you gonna do with a dog then? You can’t just take in every stray you find.” _

_ Bucky’s heart plummets and he buries his face in Bella’s fuzzy neck for comfort.  _

_ “Sweetheart, we can still take that trip to St. Bart’s,” he says, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “I’ll get one of my grad school buddies to dog sit and...”  _

_ “Well maybe,” says Brock, unconvinced. “But Bucky, think of yourself for once. Think of us. Give the dog back.”  _

_ Bucky bites back the retort that comes immediately into his head, the one that says if Brock were thinking of them, he’d find a way to be home in New York more. He’s surprised that this thought even entered his mind, and immediately dismisses it as unfair and disloyal.  _

_ “I do think of us,” Bucky says softly. “All the time.”  _

_ “So do I,” Brock replies immediately, defensive, almost as if he heard that unspoken retort. “I’m workin all the time for us, babe.”  _

_ “I know,” says Bucky. “And I appreciate it. I just miss you.”  _

_ “I miss you too,” says Brock, sounding again like he’s half-listening. “Listen, babe, I gotta go.” _

_ “OK, love you, talk to you soon,” says Bucky.  _

_ “Yep,” says Brock, and hangs up.  _

_ Bucky tries to ignore the cold feeling that washes over him after this call, once again burying his face in Bella’s silky fur. If he’s honest, he’s surprised that Brock took the news about Bella as well as he did. But there’s no way Bucky’s gonna say anything to his boyfriend about her having puppies. That’s not a conversation for now. Or maybe for ever.  _

  
  


Bucky sighs as he opens his apartment door and walks down the stairs, Bella climbing down carefully behind him. Then he resolves to put Brock out of his mind for now - he’s got a pregnant, injured dog to take care of.

Surprisingly, the dog park isn’t that full for a beautiful Sunday in June. A few dogs run happily around in circles inside the fence as their owners stand around and chat. Bella has made it this far with no problems, and she seems excited, sniffing the air and looking around like she’s very familiar with this particular facility. 

Bucky leans down and pats her gently on the head. 

“You want to go inside and play a bit, girl?” he says with enthusiasm. In response, Bella smiles and lets out a single excited bark. Bucky leads her into the enclosure, closes the gate, and unclips her leash. She runs away from him a bit, looking playful, and he looks for a stick or something he can throw for her. 

His back is turned for less than a minute looking for a stick, and when he straightens up and turns around, Bella is no longer there. Bucky inhales sharply and looks wildly around. He sees Bella on the other side of the gate now, having obviously taken advantage of a new arrival and slipping through it while it was open. 

“Bella!” he calls, panicky, and runs toward her, navigating around the new dog and its owners. “Bella!” 

Bella woofs happily in response and takes off toward the Harry Chapin playground and Middagh Street. Bucky pelts after her, clutching the new leash in his hand. 

_ Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit,  _ he repeats over and over in his mind. What if Bella busts her stitches? What if she runs in front of a car? Bucky’s chest clenches in alarm as it hits him how much he cares for this dog, how much space she’s already occupying in his heart. 

Bucky reaches the playground just in time to see Bella take off down Columbia Heights. At least she’s on the sidewalk. He runs as fast as he can after her - good thing he’s been doing all that running! - and watches as she turns a sharp left and crosses the street. Happily no cars are coming. 

Bella runs down Cranberry and crosses the intersection with Willow Street without stopping. Bucky cringes when he hears a squeal of brakes and a horn blow, but as he nears the intersection he sees a big black fluffy tail wagging on the other side of the street so he realizes she’s made it across. 

Bucky loses sight of Bella as he crosses Willow, but runs up the street anyway. Chest heaving, he stops in the middle of the block in front of an alleyway as he realizes Bella’s disappeared. He looks around, panicking about what could have happened to her, and clutches the leash in confusion. 

Then he hears a familiar WOOF. It’s coming from down the alley. He jogs down the small road, trying to catch his breath, and then stops again in disbelief. 

Half a block down the alley, there’s a brownstone. It’s smaller than usual, painted shutters a little shabby, set in the midst of a small patch of green lawn dotted with dandelions and ringed with some scraggly shrubs. It’s sitting by itself and it looks like it just appeared here this minute out of thin air, like something out of a fairy tale. 

Bella’s sitting on the front walk, panting and smiling, tail wagging furiously, near the two steps leading up to the door. And standing in front of the door at the top of those steps is a man. 

He’s tall, taller than Bucky, with dark skin and a shiny bald head. Wearing all black. He’s got an eyepatch over his left eye, but his other eye stares piercingly at Bucky, assessing him. Weighing him in the balance. Judging him. 

Bella makes a tiny whine, and the man looks down at her and back at Bucky.

“Mr. Fury?” Bucky says uncertainly. 

“Call her,” says the man. “She’s yours.” 

Bucky smiles and says in a voice that could turn the devil good, “Bella.” 

Bella looks at him, mouth open, then back at the man in black. Fury shrugs and goes back inside, leaving the door open. Bella follows him, then turns around in the doorframe and woofs gently at Bucky.

Bucky hesitates for a moment, then walks up the path and the steps and into the house. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


Inside the house things are as shabby and worn as the outside, except for the brand spanking-new computer equipment sitting on the scuffed wooden desk in the living room. There are three huge monitors showing different social media platforms, and another one that looks like a continuous live feed of texts. The man in black is sitting at the desk, back turned to Bucky.

“What about Bella?” Bucky says hesitantly. Fury turns to him.

“She’s a very intelligent dog,” he says. “Take her.” 

“You don’t want her?” asks Bucky, nonplussed. 

“I don’t want anything,” says Fury, and turns back toward the monitors. 

Bucky shakes his head and puts the leash in his back pocket. Then he remembers the money and pulls out the $400. 

“Did you leave this?” he says, holding up the bills.

“For the vet,” says Fury without turning around. 

“How’d you get my address,” Bucky asks, disbelieving.

“It wasn’t hard,” the other man says. 

“You gave me too much. Where can I put the extra?” asks Bucky, still clutching the money. He’s feeling increasingly uneasy and he doesn’t want to owe this man anything. Fury taps the table next to him, his back still turned. 

Bucky cautiously edges over to the table, which is so dominated by the monitors that there’s barely any room for anything else. As he puts the bills on the table, he can’t help but look over the man’s shoulder at the big computer screens. 

They’re continuously feeding updates from Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, massive amounts of photos, messages, memes, and videos. Bucky sees a split screen on Twitter that’s somehow both a TL and a whole set of DMs. The monitor closest to him is the live feed of texts and Bucky stares at it, fascinated. 

Bucky’s not a huge user of social media. He has a Twitter and an Instagram for his modeling stuff, but to be honest he doesn’t use them much and lets his agent post most of the photos and content.

“You’re part of a lot of text chats?” he says, watching the feed scroll. 

“No,” Fury says bluntly. “I’m eavesdropping.” 

Bucky’s mouth drops open and he looks at the man in horror. “What?!?” he cries. 

“I’m listening in on my neighbors’ texts and FaceTimes and social media conversations,” the man says as calmly as if he’s saying, “I’m making tea and writing an email to my mom.” He looks at Bucky.

“You don’t seem amused,” Fury says.

“Because I’m not,” Bucky replies, taking a step back. “It’s illegal. And immoral. You should stop doing this.” 

Fury shrugs. “I’ve been doing something like this all my life, until I retired.” he says. 

“What were you, a cop?” Bucky asks.

“Worse,” Fury says. “A judge.” Bucky’s eyes widen. The man motions to an empty chair next to him. Bucky shuffles forward and slumps into it, almost involuntarily. The other man turns to him and holds out his hand.

“Nick Fury,” he says. Bucky hesitates, but takes his hand reluctantly and shakes it.

“James Barnes,” he says. “But call me...”

“Bucky,” Fury finishes for him. Bucky’s eyebrows raise. 

“You been spying on me too, Fury?” he says, hackles up. Fury shrugs. 

“I spy on all my neighbors,” he says. “Including you.” 

For a moment Bucky’s eyes cloud over with rage and he makes as if to stand up, but Fury stops him with a sharp “Wait.” He points to the monitor with the Instagram feed. 

“Here’s Tom Forman, a 42-year-old marketing executive who lives with his wife and two cute kids just down the way on Sackett Street in Cobble Hill,” Fury says, pulling up beautifully framed photos of a seemingly perfect family in a well decorated living room and outside a cute bistro. In spite of himself, Bucky leans in to look at the pictures, seeing an attractive wealthy white couple with their two kids, an elementary school age boy and an adorable toddler girl. 

“They look perfect, right?” Fury asks. Bucky nods. They really do. 

Fury turns to the monitor with the text feed and clicks a few times. 

“This is Tom’s recent text chat with Victor Martinez, a 20-year-old mechanic who lives in Crown Heights with his mom and sister,” remarks Fury, isolating a text chat from two days ago. Bucky looks at it more closely, eyes wide. 

  
  


**Victor Martinez**

_ Miss u baby _

  
  


**Tom Forman**

_ God I miss u too, cant wait til we’re together and you eat me out and pound my ass so hard, want that so much _

  
  


**Victor Martinez**

_ Me too baby want to split u on my cock _

  
  


**Tom Forman**

_ Yesss getting hard just thinking about it  _

  
  
  


Bucky looks in anguish at Fury. 

“But...this is so personal... and he’s married...” he trails off. “Are you gonna tell the wife?” 

Fury looks pityingly at him. 

“What would I tell her?” he says. “‘Excuse me, ma’am, your husband is having an affair with your mechanic?’ She wouldn’t believe me and she’d tell me to fuck off.” He shakes his head and leans toward Bucky, his voice more urgent. 

“Listen, Bucky,” he says, more intense than ever. “Whether I eavesdrop or not, whether I see his texts or not, sooner or later she’ll find out. Or he’ll just walk out one day. And everything will be a mess. And what can we do about it?”

“But then...why do this at all?” Bucky asks, his chest tight. Fury sighs.

“I spent thirty years as a judge,” he answers. “And in all my judgments I was never quite sure whether I was on the side of right or wrong. At least here, you have a clearer view of where the truth lies. All these people...” Fury’s arm sweeps out, encompassing the entire set of monitors in his gesture. “So many worries, so many secrets, so many easy paths taken.”

Bucky shakes his head. “It just doesn’t seem right,” he says. “Mr. Fury, really, why...”

“Nick,” Fury cuts him off. “Call me Nick.” 

“Nick,” Bucky concedes reluctantly. “Why...” But then a loud click sounds from one of the monitors and Fury holds up his hand and cocks his head. 

“Hey sweetheart,” says a low, resonant voice with a rumble in it that, Brock or no Brock, lodges deep down in Bucky’s gut. That voice vibrates in his chest and sends a thrill up his spine. He thinks for a brief moment what it would be like to hear that voice say those words to him. He swallows hard.

“Hey babe,” says another man’s voice, not so deep. 

“Glad I caught you,” says Deep Voice Guy. “I just wanted to hear your voice and say thank you for last night.” His voice turns softer. “It was so wonderful...I can’t believe we made love for that long. It was magical.” 

At this, Bucky turns away from the monitor and covers his ears.

“Yeah,” says the other guy. “It was great.” 

“I just...” says Deep Voice Guy. “I’m just so happy we’re together.” His voice bubbles over with happiness and he pauses. “I can’t even believe I’m enough for you. Just a clerk for a judge. I know you’ve got big plans and big desires. I’m just so thankful you’re with me.” 

“Yeah, me too,” says the other guy, his voice more neutral. 

“Are you around later today? Can we get together?” Deep Voice asks.

“Nah, I got work to do, to get ready for tomorrow,” the other guy answers. 

“OK,” says Deep Voice. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning when I’m going into the courthouse, yeah? And maybe we can get lunch tomorrow or sometime this week.”

“Yeah, sure,” says other guy, sounding distracted. An indistinct voice can be heard in the background. “Hey babe, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” 

The call disconnects and Bucky takes his hands off his ears. Fury turns to him.

“Did you listen?” he asks Bucky.

Bucky shakes his head. “Just the beginning,” he says, then smiles. “They’re in love.” 

“Maybe,” Fury shrugs. “He hasn’t met the right person yet.” Although Fury doesn’t specify the “he,” Bucky immediately understands he’s referring to Deep Voice Guy. 

“How do you know?” Bucky asks, his smile dissolving. Fury shrugs again. 

“I’ve heard a lot of their conversations. His boyfriend doesn’t really care about him, doesn’t love him,” he says matter-of-factly. 

“He sounded really nice,” says Bucky, suddenly and strangely defensive of some random guy he doesn’t know. Fury raises his eyebrows at him.

“Yeah, really nice,” he says sarcastically and turns back to one of the monitors. A few clicks, and he’s got two Facebook profiles open side by side. 

Again Bucky leans in, curious despite his revulsion, and sees the same dark-haired guy with two different accounts. On the left side, he’s got his arm around a ridiculously gorgeous blond about Bucky’s age who can certainly find his way to the weight room. The blond’s face looks really familiar, does Bucky know this guy? From school or work? 

The photo on the right shows an older, distinguished-looking man with greying blond hair wrapping him in a possessive hug and kissing him on the cheek. 

“That’s Jack with your young lawyer, who’s clerking for my old friend Judge Erskine on the Second Circuit,” Fury says softly as Bucky’s eyes take in the images. “And that’s him with Alexander Pierce, CEO of a private equity firm and a billionaire.” Bucky narrows his eyes at the second photo - he’s seen those two together before, but he can’t for the life of him remember where. 

“You still think this guy Jack is nice?” Fury says drily, looking pointedly at Bucky.

Bucky’s curiosity twists the wrong way in his stomach and suddenly he can’t take it anymore. 

“You’re wrong,” he bursts out, turning to Fury. 

“Wrong about what?” Fury replies. 

“Everything,” Bucky says, his voice tight with emotion. “Everything,” he says again, louder. 

He stands up abruptly, startling Bella, who’s been lazing on the floor on the other side of Fury. 

“People aren’t all bad,” Bucky goes on, agitated, running his hands through his hair. “They may be weak, and sometimes they make bad choices, but that doesn’t mean they’re intrinsically bad. They can be really good.”

Fury stands up too, pulling himself to his full height, his mouth in a tight line. “Good like your boyfriend, Rumlow?” he retorts, voice dripping with sarcasm. “He ignores you and neglects you and he’s always picking up...” 

“NO!” Bucky shouts, cutting him off. “No, I won’t hear this bullshit from you! Stay out of my life, Fury, and stay out of other people’s private lives. And give up this disgusting pastime.” 

He strides toward the door and opens it. Hearing Bella’s claws on the wood as she follows him across the living room floor, he turns with his hand on the doorknob. 

“Bella?” Bucky says sweetly, putting out his hand to her. She licks his hand but hesitates, looking between him and Fury. Then she walks back and sits at Fury’s feet, panting a little and smiling. 

Bucky’s heart drops. He looks at Fury, who shrugs. 

“You think you know everything,” Bucky says, struggling to keep his voice level. “But here’s one thing maybe you don’t know,” he says, looking pointedly at Fury. “Bella’s going to have puppies.” 

And he walks out the door and slams it shut before he can see the reaction on Fury’s face. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


Bucky strides down Hicks Street toward his apartment, the adrenaline from his encounter with Fury still coursing through his veins. He’s muttering to himself and he’s aware that he looks like a scary disturbed person as he passes people on the street. But he’s too angry to care. 

_ How dare that guy,  _ he thinks to himself.  _ What a shithead. What gives him the right to spy on people and pass judgment on them. It’s an invasion of privacy. And it’s illegal. And totally totally wrong. Especially about Brock. Fuck him. How can Bella even want to stay with him, he’s a shithead and doesn’t even care about her the way I do... _

Bucky’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize he’s reached his apartment until he sees the Heights Vision sign. As he bounds up the stairs and unlocks his front door, he thinks about the last comment Fury started to make about Brock and his blood pressure spikes again. 

Climbing the steps to his studio, he pulls out his phone to call his boyfriend. Brock will be loving and caring and attentive. That’ll show Fury. And that’ll ease Bucky’s own mind and make at least  _ something _ good come out of this nightmare day. 

He enters his apartment and hits the call button. The call goes straight to voicemail, and at the sound of Brock’s self-assured voice saying “Hey, you’ve reached Brock Rumlow,” a sob catches in Bucky’s throat and he bursts into tears. He collapses onto his couch and lets it all out, crying and crying, his phone dropped on the floor, his arm draped over the side of the sofa and clutching at the makeshift bed he’d made for Bella. 

  
  


  
  


As Bucky falls asleep that night, he remembers with sudden and awful clarity where he’s seen that guy Jack and his older boyfriend Alexander Pierce, the hedge fund billionaire - they were in the Range Rover that hit Bella last week. 

  
  
  


  
  


A few nights later, Bucky is hanging out in his apartment after work, wondering if Brock is going to get in touch, when he gets a text from someone else.

  
  
  


**Unknown Caller**

_ Hi Bucky I’m sorry about last weekend. I was out of line and shouldn’t have treated you like that. Please come see me and Bella on Saturday if you can. Yours, Nick Fury _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick Fury’s house on Cranberry Street doesn’t exist, but I liked the street name so in this world it does, along with the little alleyway to get there, just like the New York equivalent of a little fairy tale cottage. 
> 
> I made up the technology that allows Fury to spy on his neighbors’ texts and calls and social media accounts, but sadly I wouldn’t be surprised if something like it exists. I mean, the tech companies that run the social media platforms are spying on us all the time, why not an individual with the time and inclination to do so?


	4. You Were With Someone Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the text there’s a photo of Jack with a handsome older man with greying blond hair. They’re sitting at a club or fancy restaurant, heads together, and the older man’s arm is draped possessively over Jack’s shoulder. It’s nighttime and in the tradition of many such photos, the picture is slightly overexposed.
> 
> Steve is about to dismiss the text as a practical joke or someone trolling him when his eye strays to the date stamp at the bottom of the picture. It’s from last Thursday night after Steve finished the bar exam, when Jack blew him off drinks or dinner because he had “work.” 
> 
> ...in which Steve takes the bar exam and discovers the truth about Jack from a mysterious text...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: broken hearts and ugly crying on the subway

Steve gets off the 7 train at the Javitz Center and restrains himself from bounding up the stairs out of the subway station. It’s a beautiful July morning in New York and there’s a bit of a breeze flowing down the platform that keeps the station from being too hot and stuffy. 

It’s the first day of the two-day New York bar exam and adrenaline is coursing through Steve’s veins. The bar exam! He’s been studying for months and thinks he’s ready but he’s also really nervous. He wants very badly to pass on his first try, to impress Judge Erskine and to set himself up well for the rest of his career. 

As Steve follows the throng out of the station and up the escalators into the convention center, he takes out his phone to call Jack. It’s 8.15 and there’s plenty of time for him to be in his seat by 9, but he wants to make sure he talks to Jack sooner rather than later. 

He’s trying not to worry about things with Jack, but the reality is that they haven’t seen each other much this month. Steve had felt so good after his date with Jack at the beginning of July, and he’d smiled for the next two days after their intimate phone call on that Sunday afternoon, when he’d been so honest about loving Jack and being thankful that Jack loved him. Or at least Jack had acknowledged that Steve loved him and hadn’t said that he  _ didn’t _ love him. So that was...something. 

Then a few days later, Jack had taken Steve out for a birthday dinner, although it was on July 5, a day after Steve’s actual birthday, because Jack had said he was busy with work on the Fourth. And honestly, Steve gets that. It’s tough having the Fourth of July as your birthday, people always have other plans for the holiday. Maybe not quite as bad as Christmas, but still not great. Steve had spent his actual birthday at a barbecue with law school friends - although not Sam and Natasha, who are still in Europe - and Jack hadn’t answered any of his texts that day. 

_ What was Jack doing that day that he couldn’t text? _ Steve wondered this at the time and still sort of wonders about it now as he moves to a corner of the station to call his boyfriend out of the flow of people walking into the Javitz Center. Especially because Jack has been even more unresponsive than usual in the weeks since then.

That little voice that sounds a bit like Nat pops up in his head.  _ He doesn’t love you _ , it insists.  _ He’s with someone else _ . 

Steve shakes this thought off impatiently and dials. He’s fairly confident that Jack will pick up, since he should be just getting to work on the other side of midtown. 

But the call goes immediately to voicemail and he hears: “Hi there, you’ve reached Jack Rollins. Sorry I missed your call...” Steve stares at his phone in confusion for a minute, then ends the call. He thinks for a second, then sends a text. 

  
  


**Steve**

_ Hey love, trying to get in touch before I head into the exam, you around? _ 😘

  
  
  


He waits to see if there’s a response, but there’s nothing. Not even the three dots appear like Jack is about to send anything. Maybe Jack’s in the shower. Or on the subway. Yeah, he’s probably on the subway. Steve decides he’ll give him a few minutes.

After five or ten minutes, Steve checks the time again and realizes he needs to get inside to be on time to take his seat. He dials Jack’s number again and skips through the voicemail to the beep.

“Hey babe,” he says, trying to keep his voice light and casual. “Just checking in before I go into the exam. We get a break around lunchtime, I’ll try you then. Love you.” 

He hangs up and types another text.

  
  
  


**Steve**

_ On my way in, thinking of you, left a vm _ 🥰

  
  


Steve considers leaving several more lovey emojis, but decides that’s too much even for him and restrains himself to just the one. He sends the text, feeling a little pang of disappointment in his chest. He was really hoping to hear his boyfriend’s voice before he goes in to take the most important exam of his life. Oh well.

Now it’s time to get going. Time to kick some ass. But somehow even in the midst of his excitement, Steve now feels a little deflated, a little ache settling in under his ribs. He puts his phone in his pocket, takes a deep breath to steel himself, and strides toward the signs saying NYS BOARD OF LAW EXAMINERS. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


“Holy shit,” Steve mutters to himself at 5 o’clock the next day, when the timer goes off and the bar exam is over. He feels like he’s been through the wringer, and everyone else in the room looks as exhausted as he feels. He stands up, stretches, and follows the crowd out the door.

But as much as Steve feels worn out and tired, he’s also experiencing a quiet sense of satisfaction and triumph. He won’t get his results back until October, but he feels like he did really well - the result of months of study and some really helpful guidance from Judge Erskine. Steve resolves to get him a thank-you gift.

As Steve walks toward the Javitz Center exit to the subway, he decides to call Jack to catch up and let him know how things went. It’s only Wednesday and Erskine has given him the rest of the week off after the exam - maybe he and Jack can get dinner or grab late-night drinks if Jack’s got evening work. 

Miraculously, Jack picks up, but Steve can hear background noise and assumes that Jack is at work. 

“Hey hon, sorry to bother you at work,” Steve says, trying to modulate the excitement in his voice. 

“No worries, what’s up,” Jack responds, sounding preoccupied. Jack’s sounded preoccupied a lot lately; Steve attributes it to a big securities case he’s been working on. Steve squelches a brief pang of annoyance - I mean, Jack is busy but Steve  _ has _ talked to him numerous times about taking the bar exam this week - and goes on.

“Just finished the exam, it was brutal, but I think I did OK,” Steve says with enthusiasm. He stands near the subway turnstiles without going through so he doesn’t lose his cell signal. “I think we should celebrate. Wanna get dinner later? Or drinks? I’m free the rest of the week, Erskine doesn’t expect me back at work ‘til Monday…”

“Aw, Steve, I can’t,” says Jack, not sounding too disappointed if Steve’s being honest. “This case is kicking my ass, think I’m gonna be working all weekend…”

“Oh fuck, Jack, that sucks…” Steve starts to say but he’s cut off by an unknown voice not far from Jack in the background saying, “Time to go, sweetheart, we’ve got that appointment.” 

“Who’s that?” Steve says, a little more sharply than he meant to. 

“Who’s who?” Jack answers, sounding like he’s stalling. 

“The person calling you ‘sweetheart,’” says Steve, trying to restrain his impatience. There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. 

“Oh, that’s not for me,” Jack says quickly. “My two colleagues are right nearby, they’re dating and they’re headed out somewhere.” 

“Ah,” says Steve, unsure how else to respond. His impatience has morphed quickly into uneasiness. “OK, well, let me know if you get out early. Or even late. I’m happy to meet you at your place.” 

“OK,” says Jack, once again distracted. “Steve, I gotta go, talk to you later.”

“OK, b—ye,” Steve says, his last word bisected by Jack hanging up on him. He stares at his phone for a minute, trying to make sense of the last five minutes. That voice he’d heard only yesterday morning echoes through his head:  _ He doesn’t love you, he’s with someone else, he doesn’t love you… _

With a sinking feeling of realization, it hits Steve that he’s heard that voice a lot lately: today...yesterday...on his birthday...outside the veterinary clinic back in Brooklyn late last month...

Steve fights with the voice, but he doesn’t really conquer it until he’s almost home to Brooklyn. He works hard to reassure himself, and he almost manages it. But it surfaces again, stronger than ever, over the next few days. Aside from one very brief and mildly apologetic text on Saturday morning, there’s no word from Jack at all.

Late the following week, it’s the middle of the afternoon and Steve’s sitting in his office at the federal courts building downtown and staring out into space. It’s not often he gets to do this - since he came back on Monday, he’s been incredibly busy, working 12 to 14-hour days prepping for a big set of oral arguments. He already knows he has to stay late tonight to research some case law for Erskine and he’s contemplating running out and getting an iced coffee to help him power through. 

All this work has given Steve a better idea of how busy Jack is and why he cancels on Steve so often - there’s even more work for an associate in a corporate firm! 

But since Steve’s conversation with Jack after the bar exam last week, he’s had a low-level gut churn that just doesn’t seem to go away. That conversation made Steve both uneasy and suspicious, especially since he hasn’t heard from Jack at all since his Saturday morning text. 

Steve doesn’t want to come across as clingy or desperate, but he also loves and misses his boyfriend and wants to see him every now and then. Before Jack he hadn’t dated anyone else seriously for a while, but he doesn’t think the norms have changed that much and he doesn’t think that’s an unreasonable request, even with their hectic schedules. 

Just then, Steve’s phone buzzes on his desk. He tries not to get his hopes up that it’s Jack, but they rise anyway as he picks it up. 

  
  


**Sam**

_ To Steven Rogers, Esq. from his wandering besties _

  
  


There’s a selfie attached of Sam kissing Natasha’s cheek in front of the Eiffel Tower at night. Sam looks like he’s having trouble keeping a straight face and Nat looks perfectly put together and entirely smug. 

Steve shoves his disappointment down deep, chuckles to himself and saves the photo on his phone. This is the latest in a series of similar selfies that started with all the familiar London landmarks the first week and then moved to Amsterdam, Delft and The Hague, Brussels, Amiens, and then all over Normandy and Brittany, including Mont St Michel. Now obviously his two best friends have made Sam’s dreams come true and are taking Paris by storm. 

In response, Steve takes a selfie with sucked-in cheeks and a Blue Steel stare and sends it back to Sam with a message.

  
  
  


**Steve**

_ It’s a glamorous life on the Second Circuit, not quite Paris but close _ 😉

  
  
  


He doesn’t expect a response from Sam or Nat, and indeed his phone is quiet for a few minutes. Steve is just about to get up from his desk and go grab that iced coffee when his phone buzzes again. He picks it up, thinking that maybe Sam has pinged him with some sort of comeback, and then he pauses as he looks at the screen.

  
  


**Unknown Caller**

_ Le Bernardin 8 pm _

  
  
  


Under the text there’s a photo of Jack with a handsome older man with greying blond hair. They’re sitting at a club or fancy restaurant, heads together, and the older man’s arm is draped possessively over Jack’s shoulder. It’s nighttime and in the tradition of many such photos, the picture is slightly overexposed.

Steve is about to dismiss the text as a practical joke or someone trolling him when his eye strays to the date stamp at the bottom of the picture. It’s from last Thursday night after Steve finished the bar exam, when Jack blew him off drinks or dinner because he had “work.” 

With this discovery, Steve’s gut churn hits crisis-level and for an instant he’s worried he’s going to throw up right there at his desk. He can’t believe it - he doesn’t want to believe it - but it confirms a lot of suspicions that have been rolling around in his head and that he’s been trying very hard to dismiss over the past month or two. 

A soft but sure voice, that same voice that’s been playing for weeks now, sounds in his head.  _ See? He doesn’t love you,  _ it insists. 

Steve stands up and leaves his desk, jaw working, stomach in knots. Now he really needs that coffee. Or maybe a double bourbon. He walks down the corridor in a daze and hears a voice coming out of the fog.

“Steve? Steve? You OK?” the voice says. He turns and sees Darcy, another new clerk who started the same week he did and clerks for Judge Foster. They’ve spent some late nights together eating takeout in the office and have gotten to be friends in a short time, which is great. Normally Steve is happy to see Darcy but right now his brain is barely functioning. 

Steve turns toward Darcy, who looks worried.

“Steve, you OK?” she repeats. “You look super pale. Are you sick?” 

Steve takes a deep breath. “Nah,” he says with more bravado than he feels. “Just feelin tired so I was gonna go grab a coffee. Want anything?” 

“Yeah, can you get me a venti caramel mochaccino with a shot of espresso?” Darcy asks. “Hey, I can come with you if you want - I know my drink order is A Lot.” 

“No worries,” Steve placates her. “I just need a quick walk to clear my head. Happy to get your coffee.” Darcy starts digging in her blazer pocket.

“Let me at least give you some money...” she starts.

“No need, I’ve got a card right here, it’ll be easy,” Steve cuts in, trying to keep the harshness out of his voice. “You can pick up the order next time, OK?” 

“Sure, Steve, sure,” she says, still looking a little doubtful. But Steve smiles at her and walks away, looking resolute. His shock and stomachache wash through him but a little layer of protective film also winds its way around his heart, muting all strong emotions and protecting him, almost like an anesthetic. He almost feels grateful for this. He may be upset, but he reminds himself that for the rest of today, he’s got work to do and needs to keep it together. He’ll deal with this horrible epiphany later. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


Later that night sees Steve walking slowly down 51st Street past Radio City toward Le Bernardin. He’s been at war with himself all afternoon and evening about this excursion, whether to follow up on this mysterious text or just dismiss it with a scoff.

But after Judge Erskine let him go for the evening, his feet made the decision for him and he automatically headed west from the office toward the restaurant. On his way, he’d texted Jack to see about late-night drinks tonight - just to see if Jack would respond and he could put aside his worries and concerns.

It’s a beautiful evening, with a light coating of humidity but nowhere near the typical early August New York swamp, and the moon is shining down to mingle with the streetlights. But Steve doesn’t see or feel any of this - his heart feels like lead and part of him is screaming at him to just run off home. But he’s resolved to go through with this, even if it’s bullshit, and a part of him realizes that he can’t keep living like this. Better to know for sure than to live with all the doubt and fear.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t make it here at 8 pm - he had too much work to get done. So it’s around 10.30 as he edges closer to the sleek awning and revolving door that invite the elite into one of the city’s most exclusive and highly-rated restaurants. Because it’s so late, he even wonders if anything will happen or if he’s missed Jack altogether. 

Undecided, he stops a door down from the restaurant entrance and pulls out his phone to double-check his texts. There’s radio silence from Jack - no text, no voice message, nothing. He’s just about to head toward the famous revolving doors with some pretext to look for Jack when they spin and two people exit the building. In a flash Steve ducks behind a nearby pillar. 

It’s Jack and the older blond gentleman from the mysterious text photo. They are talking and laughing and obviously very happy. Jack’s face is lit up and he looks adoringly at the older man. The man has his arm around Jack and as they approach the curb, he whispers something in Jack’s ear. They are obviously waiting for a car and soon the other man leans over and kisses Jack on the lips, tenderly and at length. Soon the kiss deepens and Jack opens his mouth to the older man.

A couple minutes later a big town car slides quietly up to the curb and stops. The two men pull apart and slide into the back of the limo and it takes off down 51st a minute later. The whole episode has taken at most five minutes. 

Steve pushes away from the wall behind the pillar and walks forward a few steps. His head is spinning and he feels drunk in the worst way, like when the world is Too Much and closing in and you feel weightless and skinless and horribly exposed to every possible sensory aggression. He knew that this was a very real possibility but deep down he was secretly hoping that it was all just a joke or a big misunderstanding, or that the mystery texter was just sending him on a wild goose chase. 

Now Steve’s not sure what to do next. He feels adrift and aimless, untethered, like a light wind could separate him into pieces and blow those pieces away. He briefly considers calling Sam and Nat but remembers that it’s after 4 AM in Paris and besides he doesn’t want to bother his friends while they’re on the vacation of a lifetime. 

Usually when Steve’s not sure what to do, he starts to move, so this is what he does now - walks east toward Sixth Avenue and just keeps going. It’s a beautiful summer night and there are plenty of people on the streets, but he hardly sees any of them. He’s hurting but also numb, like his chest is encased in plastic wrap. This is a strange and desolate feeling he’s never had before, not even when he was in life-threatening situations carrying out army special ops missions in the Middle East. 

He walks and walks, east and south, his head snarled with painful thoughts and emotions but nothing clear, just a shapeless grey mass of anger and sadness. 

After an hour or so he comes to himself and looks around. He’s at Union Square in front of the Starbucks. Across the street is the dog run, and a handful of locals are there, talking while their dogs run around and sniff each other. 

Suddenly Steve remembers that just a week or so ago he was daydreaming about getting a dog with Jack. He’d been walking near the Hillside Dog Park in Brooklyn and had seen a beautiful black and tan border collie-type dog headed slowly across the park with her owner, a tall, formidable-looking bald guy all in black. 

This dog had caught at Steve’s heart and he’d spun an entire fantasy about him and Jack moving in together and adopting a similar kind of dog, maybe a stray from a local shelter. The dream had kept him comforted and happy for the rest of the day. 

Now as Steve sees the dogs in Union Square it all rushes back to him and he realizes that nothing in this fantasy will come to pass. There will be no dog. There will be no happily ever after with Jack. Something breaks inside him and it tears off the protective film around his heart. His breath catches and he bursts into tears right there on the street. 

Not wanting to stay on the street while he’s bawling his eyes out (though true to form, his fellow New Yorkers are ignoring him left and right), he heads down into the subway and jumps on the R train toward home. 

Steve cries through the entire train ride, his heart broken. He soaks through his handkerchief (yes, Steve is That Guy Who Carries a Hankie Instead Of Kleenex, his mom brought him up a certain way, OK?) and ends up taking off his suit jacket and using his shirt sleeve to clean up the remaining tears and snot. His fellow subway riders assiduously look away, bless them. 

When Steve gets off the train at Court Street, he’s all cried out but he still hurts like hell. His chest aches and his head is still a fog of miserable racing thoughts. He heads up Montague past St. Ann’s church and stops at his favorite bodega on the corner. There he says hi to Javier, the night clerk, and buys a pack of gum and six nips of the best vodka they have, which is, unfortunately, Smirnoff. 

Javier looks at Steve’s purchases doubtfully and looks back at him. 

“You OK, man?” Javier says, ringing up the minis. Steve briefly considers telling him the truth but it’s too new and raw and painful so he shrugs it off. 

“Yeah,” he says, trying to be casual. “Long day. Just didn’t feel like walking all the way down to the liquor store.” Which is hilarious considering he just walked 50 blocks through Manhattan. He gives Javier a twenty, tells him to keep the change, and drags the bag off the counter. 

When Steve gets home a few minutes later, he looks up at his brownstone building, planning to head inside. But it hits him like a ton of bricks that he’ll be drinking all alone in an empty apartment - his best friends are thousands of miles away and his boyfriend is with another man. He can’t face that level of isolation right now. 

It is a beautiful night, the moon shining down from the ink-black sky past the few streetlights on Monroe Place, so he thinks  _ What the fuck  _ and just parks himself halfway up the stoop. Tucking his jacket and briefcase next to him against the railing, he unscrews the top of the first mini. 

_ Cheers, _ he mutters to himself, a fresh feeling of desolation and despair washing over him. He knocks back a huge swig. 

Half an hour later, the six empty Smirnoff nips littering the step next to him, Steve is passed out snoring, his head leaning awkwardly against the stoop railing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Le Bernardin is one of the top-rated restaurants in New York and is supposed to be amazing, if ridiculously expensive. Exactly the kind of place Alexander Pierce would take his secret boyfriend. 
> 
> There is no bodega right there on Montague Street in real life, but there is in this world.


	5. There’s Just Something About You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Bucky leans in, both of them are squarely in the light and can see each other more clearly. They look at each other, dumbfounded. The blond guy’s mouth drops open a bit, and Bucky feels like he’s been struck between the eyes. This guy is gorgeous, even falling-down drunk, with a sculptured jawline, a sensitive, full mouth, and eyelashes that go on forever. And beyond that...
> 
> “Don’t I know you?” they both say at the same time. Then they laugh.
> 
> ...in which Bucky and Steve almost/sort of meet, under strange circumstances...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: a little mild making out, a brief reference to sex, and Steve Rogers being stubborn, as usual

A street violinist is playing Mozart as Bucky gets off the train at Clark Street late one Thursday night - or is it Friday morning already? - after an evening modeling job. Bucky is surprised to see him on the platform as it’s pretty late and there aren’t that many potential audience members around, but he appreciates the music and the uplift after a long day at two jobs. He pulls a few ones and all the change out of his jeans pockets and drops it in the violin case, getting a nod and a smile from the player. 

As Bucky heads up the escalator and back into cell coverage, his phone buzzes in his pocket. There’s a text there, time stamped thirty or forty minutes ago. 

  
  


**Nick Fury**

_ Come over Sat afternoon? Vet says later this month  _

  
  
  


Bucky smiles to see the text from Fury. It’s funny how the tables have turned from that first awful Sunday afternoon a month ago now. When Bucky got the conciliatory text from Fury a few days later, he was immediately tempted to delete it and block the number. And, he thinks, Brock certainly would have urged him to do so, piling on about how much of an asshole Fury was. 

But something turned over inside Bucky after that first meeting. Putting aside his own shock and revulsion at Fury’s activities, and his anger at Fury’s last comments about Brock, he tried to look at things from Nick’s point of view. And very soon he realized that the old man was lonely. And he realized that loneliness and isolation were adding to the bitterness Nick was experiencing at witnessing so many sordid secrets, so many people at their worst and weakest. 

(If he were completely honest with himself, Bucky would admit that Nick isn’t the only one struggling with loneliness and isolation in this duo.)

So he’d opened his heart and gone to see Fury that next Saturday.

They’d had a really nice visit, drinking a couple of beers and shooting the shit watching the Mets game while Bella lay next to Bucky on the sofa, her head in his lap. The following Saturday Bucky had had a modeling gig in the afternoon, so he went to Nick’s with takeout burgers for a late dinner and fed Bella the last few bites. 

_ (“Where were you?” Brock had said when Bucky called him later that night. Brock had texted while Bucky was at Fury’s place, but Bucky’s phone was in his messenger bag and he’d missed it. “Went to the gym and got takeout,” Bucky had answered. He hasn’t told Brock about Fury, instinctively realizing that his boyfriend would either not believe him and think he’s cheating, or believe him but think Nick is a crazy pervert. Better to keep this unlikely friendship a secret for now.) _

This Saturday the plan is to watch the Mets and figure out how to build a little pen for Bella for when the puppies come. Bucky can’t deny he’s excited about the birth. And he can’t deny that part of him has thought about asking Fury for one of the puppies, even though he’s not entirely sure how he would make that work given his hectic schedule. 

_ (He hasn’t told Brock about any of this either; when Brock had sarcastically asked about the dog a few days after Bucky’s initial confrontation with Fury, Bucky had just said quietly that the owner had had a change of heart and taken her back. “Excellent,” Brock had said, triumph oozing through his voice, which had made Bucky’s stomach clench in sudden anger. He hasn’t brought this up with Brock again since that night.) _

But even with all the subterfuge about Nick and Bella, Bucky is pretty happy with how things are going with Brock. Brock has called a few times over the past few weeks, first from Stockholm and then from Toronto, and they had some satisfying phone sex the other night since Brock was at least in the same time zone. Bucky’s still very much in love, even if he’s not willing to deal with his aching loneliness and the shadows of doubt and fear that occasionally skim across his heart. 

After Bucky sends an affirmative response back to Nick, he heads over to Gristedes to pick up a couple of snacks for the next few days - he’s got modeling jobs tomorrow afternoon after his internship and on Saturday morning, so he wants to have some portable fuel. He tucks the snacks into his messenger bag, thanks the cashier, and exits back onto the street. 

Back out on the street the early August heat feels oppressive, even though a few minutes ago it had felt perfectly pleasant. Weird. Bucky groans inwardly - he’s never been a huge fan of heat and humidity. But off to the left there’s a cool, dry breeze that whispers enticing words of calm and refreshment. So Bucky heads off that way and down Monroe Place, where the breeze seems to be coming from.

It’s not Bucky’s usual route home from the subway and the grocery store - Monroe Place doesn’t cut all the way through to his street so he’ll have to go around the block - but he figures the cooler air will make up for the slightly longer walk home. He shifts his messenger bag on his shoulder and heads south. 

There aren’t a lot of streetlights on Monroe so it’s fairly dark. But Bucky looks around, seeing the brownstones shrouded in the gloom, and smiles. He’s always liked this street and the eclectic mix of people he’s seen coming in and out of the houses. The breeze is cool on his face and he feels less uncomfortably hot. He starts humming a little under his breath as he makes his way down the street.

“Uuuunnnnhhhh,” comes a groan out of nowhere. Bucky startles and pulls up short. As far as he can tell he’s the only person on the block - it’s after midnight and no one is out and about, and not even that many windows are lit. He looks around and sees no one...

...until he catches sight of someone sitting halfway up the stoop of the next house. Well, “sitting” is not quite the right word - they’re slumped over and leaning heavily against the stair railing. Bucky approaches cautiously. 

It’s a tall man with short dirty blond hair who appears to be passed out, leaning against the stair railing. He’s wearing a rumpled suit with tie lying askew across his button-down. As Bucky walks up the first couple of stairs to investigate, he sees the empty minis scattered around the guy and thinks,  _ Oh shit, he’s wasted. Damn. Poor bastard. _

Bucky thinks for an instant about leaving him there, not wanting to bother him or infringe on his dignity or privacy. And besides, he’s tired and just wants to get home to bed so he’s not too wrecked for his internship in the morning...

But as soon as his thoughts wander down this path, he chastises himself for being selfish. If he were in this bad shape, he’d want someone nice and reliable to help him. So he takes a deep breath and leans over to shake the guy by the shoulder, being careful not to be too rough. 

“Hey,” he says in a soft voice. “Hey there, wake up. Wake up...” 

After a minute, the guy groans and starts coming around. His mouth is slack and his eyes are unfocused, and Bucky can’t really see his face that well in the gloom. 

“Jack...Jack...” drunk guy groans again. Then he looks around. “Where am I...who...”

“I’m not Jack, I’m just passing by,” Bucky says gently. “Do you live in this building? Can I help you get inside?” 

“Uh huh,” the guy says indistinctly and flings his arm out, almost hitting Bucky in the head and gesturing more or less in the direction of the doors up the stairs. “Up there.” 

“Let’s get you inside,” says Bucky, soothing. “Do you have keys?” The guy reaches into his pocket and fumbles awkwardly for a minute before he pulls out some keys, depositing them into Bucky’s hand. 

Then Bucky grabs the guy’s jacket and bag off the step and helps pull him to standing. He drapes the guy’s arm over his shoulders and starts what he hopes is reassuring narration as they stagger toward the door. “C’mon, let’s stand up...slowly...careful...up the stairs...inside...”

“What floor?” asks Bucky quietly inside the vestibule. 

“S-s-second,” says the guy, breathing heavily and smelling like a distillery. 

“OK, great,” says Bucky, bracing himself and continuing the reassurance. “Let’s go...up the stairs...” 

Inside the guy’s apartment, Bucky has him guide them to his bedroom and eases him down onto his bed. The guy’s in no shape to change his own clothes so Bucky swallows his embarrassment and gets his tie and shoes off, but draws the line at getting him out of his shirt and pants. By now he’s feeling very weird about being in this stranger’s bedroom and decides to hide his discomfort by being busy. 

“I’ll be right back,” Bucky says softly, and heads into the kitchen. There he fills up a glass of water and finds a big bottle of Advil in one of the cupboards. When he returns to the bedroom, the guy is still lying on his back and moaning. When he sees Bucky approach, he lifts his head.

“What...who...” he stammers out. 

“Hey, I’m just here to help you out, remember?” says Bucky, turning on the bedside light to put the water glass on the side table. “Here.” 

He takes the guy’s hand to lift it up and put the pills into it. “Sit up,” he says, encouraging. “Time to take some aspirin so you don’t feel like dogshit in the morning. Or at least so you feel like a smaller pile of dogshit.” He grins, and the guy smiles weakly and props himself on his elbow to take the pills. Bucky leans in, still holding the guy’s hand, and helps him swallow the Advil with some water.

As Bucky leans in, both of them are squarely in the light from the bedside table and can see each other more clearly. They look at each other, dumbfounded. The blond guy’s mouth drops open a bit, and Bucky feels like he’s been struck between the eyes. This guy is gorgeous, even falling-down drunk, with a sculptured jawline, a sensitive, full mouth, and eyelashes that go on forever. And beyond that...

“Don’t I know you?” they both say at the same time. Then they laugh. 

“Jinx 1-2-3, you owe me a Coke,” Bucky says, teasing. He lifts the guy’s hand up toward his own mouth. “But seriously,” he continues, “take these with some water...” He hands the guy the glass of water, and the blond man obediently takes the pills, but refuses to let go of Bucky’s hand. Then he looks intently at Bucky again.

“I’ve seen you before. I know you. You’re an angel,” he says, slurring his words a little. “Thank you...”

Bucky turns pink and drops his head. “It’s no problem,” he says quietly. “Just doing what anyone would do.” 

The other guy shakes his head, solemn. “Not just anyone. An angel,” he repeats. He carefully brings Bucky’s captive hand up to his lips and kisses his knuckles softly. 

A thrill runs through Bucky’s torso and he doesn’t resist when the guy lifts his head and leans forward to press those soft lips to Bucky’s. Again Bucky feels like he’s been struck between the eyes as he feels the other man’s strong mouth fastened to his. He tastes like vodka and his scent rises to surround Bucky, sweat and vetiver and some kind of spicy body wash. 

Bucky’s heart expands in his chest and he feels a brief surge of an indescribable emotion, of a feeling that everything has fallen into place and that he’s connected to everything else in the world. That he’s supposed to be here, with this man he doesn’t know, who’s his soulmate, his other half. He’s never gotten a kiss like this before. He could live in this kiss. He feels like he’s home. 

After a minute or two the guy licks at Bucky’s bottom lip and Bucky moans and opens his mouth to let the guy’s tongue surge in and brush lightly over his top teeth. The kiss deepens and their mouths open more and a clear vision flashes into Bucky’s head of what it would be like to be held down and fucked by this man, slow and loving and attentive and hot and dirty as all hell. At this thought, his dick twitches in his jeans. Electricity runs through him from the top of his head to his feet and he shivers in shock and delight.

Bucky is caressing the back of the guy’s neck and carding his fingers through the guy’s short hair in an effort to pull him closer and kiss him harder when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s probably Brock, the only person who texts him this late at night. 

_ Brock _ . Suddenly Bucky remembers that this guy is wasted and he doesn’t know him from Adam and he’s in a serious, committed relationship with another man who’s a thousand miles away. It’s like a bucket of ice water has been poured over his head and he pulls back, gasping and dropping the guy’s hand. 

The guy looks stunned and confused. “What’s-a matter?” he says, looking at Bucky with wounded puppy dog eyes. Those eyes are a deep cobalt blue and Bucky thinks he could gladly drown in them, but...

_ C’mon, Buck, pull it together,  _ his conscience tells him sternly from inside his head. 

“You’re drunk,” Bucky tells the man gently. “I...I can’t take advantage of you like that. You’re in no condition to give consent. And besides...I’m...I’m not single.” 

“Oh,” the guy says, despondent. He looks intensely at Bucky, or as intensely as he can given his inebriated state, and lifts his hand to gently cup Bucky’s jaw, his thumb gently caressing across Bucky’s cheekbone. His hand is huge and warm and strong and Bucky involuntarily leans his face into it, mouth open, eyelashes fluttering. The thought of those hands all over his body makes him shiver and…

_ OK, Buck, you gotta stop.  _ Bucky gently removes the blond’s hand.

“It makes shense,” the guy slurs. “You’re an angel after all. I hope your partner realizes what a wonderful per-person they’ve got with you.” His head bobs forward and he winces a little and Bucky can see beads of sweat on his forehead. 

“Let me get you a cool washcloth,” Bucky says, carefully standing up. His head is spinning and he can still feel the pressure of the guy’s lips and tongue against his mouth. He finds the bathroom off the hallway and gets the washcloth ready, then brings it back to the bedroom.

The guy is passed out, sprawled out all over the bed and snoring like a lawnmower. Bucky grins and gently wipes the guy’s face. The guy smiles in his sleep and turns over on his side, grabbing Bucky’s hand and the washcloth as he does so. Bucky extricates himself with difficulty. He turns toward the door and is about to leave when he turns back and plants a gentle kiss on the sleeping man’s cheek. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


The next morning Steve’s alarm wakes him up at 6 AM as usual. He groans loudly and turns on his side. He’s hungover and sweaty in his wrinkled work clothes and his mouth tastes like complete garbage, but his head isn’t hurting anywhere near as much as he’d expect after a blowout like last night. He’s holding a damp washcloth and he catches a glance of a half-full water glass on his bedside table and his mind stirs, trying to remember what happened. 

Someone was here with him last night, he thinks. Someone helped him into his apartment and got him water and Advil, someone was sweet to him and took care of him, someone held his hand and...kissed him? And he kissed them back? That must have been a dream. He must be making that part up. 

Nevertheless, his heart pangs with tenderness and his brain makes an effort to remember, but the memory won’t surface and the face of this Someone remains frustratingly blank. Maybe a doctor or a nurse or a nice cop? But they wouldn’t have kissed him. It certainly wasn’t his boyfriend because...

_ Jack _ . Steve suddenly remembers why he got so hammered in the first place. Jack, coming out of Le Bernardin in someone else’s arms. Jack, kissing that older man before they got into a huge limo. Jack, not replying to texts and ditching him on all those dates over the past couple of months...

Steve’s heart pangs again, but this time with bitterness. He’s loved Jack so much and always thought he was enough for Jack, but obviously that’s not true. A wave of anger courses through him and he has to take a deep breath to get himself back under control. 

He picks up the water glass, drains it, and tears off yesterday’s clothes to drop them on the floor. He still feels like hell but he realizes he’s got to go to the gym and work out to clear this adrenaline from his system before work. And then at some point soon he’s gonna find Jack Rollins and give him hell. Make him suffer, just like he’s suffered. All thought of the Someone from last night is erased from his mind. 

And just like that all the emotion smooths off Steve’s face and a grim expression settles in, creating new and premature lines from his nostrils to his chin. It mars his handsome features and takes the light from his clear blue eyes. 

That layer of protective film he felt yesterday afternoon at work wraps its way around his heart again, only thicker and more ruthless this time. Like an automaton he brushes his teeth, puts on workout clothes, packs a work outfit into his athletic bag, and heads off to the gym.

  
  
  


  
  
  


“Hey Nick,” says Bucky, coming through the front door of the tiny brownstone. Bella crowds around his feet, ecstatic that he’s here but slow and clumsy as her swollen belly gets closer to the ground. 

“Bucky,” Fury says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Can I get you a beer?” He disappears into the kitchen.

“Uh, water first, please,” Bucky responds, dropping his messenger bag by the couch. “I took a long run early this morning and then had to head out to a shoot in Chelsea. Behind on my hydration for the day.” 

He looks around and notices with satisfaction that there are now only two monitors on Fury’s desk, both turned off in deference to Bucky’s wishes. Bucky’s been trying to convince Fury to give up his surveillance altogether, so far without success, but maybe this is progress.

Nick reappears with two beer bottles in one hand and a glass of water in the other, handing the latter to Bucky with an eyeroll and setting Bucky’s beer on the side table. Bucky says “thanks” and sits down on the couch nearby. 

“All this drinking gallons of water bullshit,” Fury says, his voice edged with sarcasm. “When I was your age, we got our water through booze like normal people.” 

“Yeah, and you all looked 50 when you were 30,” Bucky shoots back. He lifts his water glass to Fury and takes a big swallow, eyes twinkling. Now that they’re really friends, it’s fun to shoot the shit with Nick and yank his chain a little. 

Fury goes “Pffffft” but his eyes are bright and the side of his mouth turns up. 

“So how was your week, Bucky?” he asks. “Anything interesting happen?”

“Nah, same ol—,” Bucky begins, and then what happened late Thursday night (or was it early Friday morning?) comes rushing back into his head and he gives an almost imperceptible start. Truth be told, he’s put it out of his mind and hasn’t really thought about it much since it happened. 

After leaving the drunk man’s apartment, he’d sent a quick text back to Brock, hurried home to his studio, and crashed onto his bed without even brushing his teeth. He slept through his alarm on Thursday and hardly had time to shower and make it to his internship on time, much less take a run. And with modeling gigs Friday evening and earlier this morning, Bucky’s barely had time to think about anything but work. 

And to be perfectly honest, a part of Bucky can’t believe it actually happened, still wonders if it was a dream or some kind of hallucinatory wish fulfillment. You don’t just meet the most perfect man in the world when he’s dead drunk, half-carry him into his apartment, and let him kiss you into a lovesick stupor. Things like that just don’t happen to normal people in real life. 

Bucky looks up and realizes he’s stopped talking in the middle of his reply and hasn’t said anything for almost a minute. Fury has taken a seat on his corner armchair and is looking at him expectantly. 

“Same ol—what?” Nick queries, eyebrows raised. Bucky takes himself in hand and shakes his head.

“Same ol’ shit,” Bucky says, grinning and finishing his water. “Work work work, it’s all I do these days. Hardly even have time to talk to my boyfriend right now.”

And to be perfectly honest, Bucky’s been dragging his feet calling Brock over the past couple of days, even when he’s had the time. He’s told himself they’ve both been too busy - Brock’s travel schedule is hectic as usual - but realizes now that he hasn’t called him because he feels guilty about that night in drunk perfect man’s apartment. 

Bucky was already hiding his friendship with Nick and Bella’s puppies from Brock, but this...feels different. It is different. Another level of deception. Bucky will never, ever say anything to Brock about what happened the other night, but he needs another day or two to build up his tolerance for lying to his boyfriend, even if it’s lying by omission.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Fury says back, teasing, and now it’s his eyes that twinkle. 

“Ah, c’mon, Nick, don’t start with  _ that _ bullshit,” says Bucky rolling his eyes and grinning as he leans back on the couch. Fury is pretty good at yanking his chain too, and it’s usually about Brock. He grabs his beer, twists off the top, and takes a huge slug. Somehow the beer tastes bitter in his mouth. 

_ So much lying, _ he thinks with an inward sigh.  _ What the fuck am I doing. _ He wonders why all this is happening, how he got to have so many things he cares about that he can’t share with Brock, and resolves in the next instant to be a better, more loyal boyfriend. And forget all about that perfect blond guy who lives on Monroe Place.

Bella carefully settles next to him on the floor and flaps her tail a few times against his legs. Fury turns on the TV and finds the Mets game on SNY. 

“Alright,” Nick says, settling back in his chair. “Let’s see if Wheeler can redeem himself.” 

“Not holding my breath,” Bucky says sarcastically as the first inning begins. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gristedes is an actual grocery store in Brooklyn Heights, but they’re not open that late in real life. But Bucky needs his snacks! 
> 
> SNY is a local New York sports channel that often broadcasts Mets games. 
> 
> Don’t worry, this isn’t the last time these two get brought together...


	6. The World Won’t Stop Turning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky looks at him and then away. He takes a deep breath. A feeling is rising from his gut through his chest and it occurs to him that it’s the scariest and most wonderful - and truest - feeling he’s ever had. It reminds him of that night with the drunk blond guy, when life felt right and everything fell into place, even just for five minutes. 
> 
> “This will sound weird,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “But I have this sense that all these important things are happening around me, and I’m somehow connected to all of them. And it’s really comforting and scares the shit out of me at the same time. I dunno.” Bucky runs his fingers through his hair and looks at Fury uncertainly. “That’s really weird, right?”
> 
> “No, not at all,” Fury says. “That’s life, Bucky. Especially if you’re paying attention.” He smiles at Bucky and puts his hand on his shoulder. 
> 
> ...in which Bucky models in a big fashion show and finds out just why Nick is...like this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief reference to past tragedy 
> 
> and Brock being an asshole, but what else is new

Nick Fury walks out of the exam room at Brooklyn Heights Veterinary Hospital. “Hey, thanks, Sharon, I really appreciate this,” he says as he turns at the door. 

Sharon pushes her hair out of her face and smiles at him. “No problem, Nick,” she says cheerfully. Then her face goes mischievous as she says, “That’s why we have super expensive weekend rates.” She leans over and skritches Bella around the ears and the dog looks up at her ecstatically and wags her tail.

Nick guffaws and says, “I’ll be back to pick her up in the morning.” He looks down at Bella, concerned, and back at Sharon. “You’ll text me if something happens tonight, right?” he presses.

“Nick,” Sharon says gently. “She’s not due for another few weeks. It’s extremely unlikely that she’ll go into labor tonight. She’ll be fine. But yes, I’ll text you.” 

Fury looks relieved. 

“Have fun tonight!” Sharon continues. “And tell Bucky I said hi.” Sharon has met Bucky, of course, when he brought Bella in after her accident, and again a couple of times over the past few weeks when Bucky has taken the dog in for checkups as a favor for Fury. 

Fury smiles and salutes and heads out to the street, pulling out his phone to order the Lyft. As he waits for the car he looks up at the sky - it’s overcast, and rain and possible thunderstorms are forecast for later - and checks his ticket one more time.

_Brooklyn Fashion Week_

_Closing Show featuring Christian Siriano_

_and_

_Kate Bishop_

_Kings Theater_

_Saturday, August 17_

_8 pm_

He’s got plenty of time to get there, but he wants to have a slice or two at Angelo’s before the show. Fury won’t deny that he’s excited - it’s rare that he gets out and about these days, and he’s never been to a live fashion show with celebrity designers...and Bucky, of course. He’s heard so much about Bucky’s various modeling gigs, but he’s interested to see what one is really like. 

Fury thinks of Bucky with a warm feeling in his heart. Their relationship didn’t start that well, which Fury attributes entirely to his own bitterness and misanthropy. He’s been alone for so long that he’s almost forgotten how to interact with others, how to be a friend, and he’s been spying on people for long enough that he’s thoroughly jaundiced about most individuals and humanity in general. Meeting a genuinely good person has made him rethink that cynical attitude and has, honestly, given him some hope. 

The car slides up to the curb and Fury pockets the ticket and slides into the backseat.

  
  
  


  
  
  


“Hold up, Bucky, just let me fix this...” Kate bustles up in front of him and adjusts his collar, then brushes his hair out of his face. Bucky just smiles and stands there patiently as she fusses. This isn’t his first fashion show, and he knows how designers can get right before they start, especially at a show like this - it’s not quite New York Fashion Week, but it’s a high-profile show with a lot of press that can really put local designers on the map. 

Kate’s excited energy is catching, and Bucky realizes the butterflies are building up in his stomach. It’s great to have a shot of adrenaline right before the show starts, especially since this show is longer than usual at an hour-plus, since it features six designers. Bucky is modeling for three of them, including Kate and Christian Siriano himself. He figured he wouldn’t be showing any Siriano looks since he doesn’t really know the guy, but one of Siriano’s regulars broke his foot and he needed a last-minute replacement. It’s going to be fun, if a bit grueling. 

“You look fabulous, if I do say so myself,” smirks Kate, brushing invisible dust motes off the sleeves of Bucky’s jacket. “Brock’s gonna flip when he sees you. It must be great to have your boyfriend in the audience.” 

Bucky stills instantly under her touch and his face freezes. Then he gets himself under control and says quietly, “Brock had a last-minute conflict and he couldn’t make it.” He exhales and goes on, trying to be positive and upbeat. “But a good friend is coming, so that’s cool.” 

“Oh Bucky, I’m so sorry,” Kate says. “I didn’t realize...I wouldn’t have said anything...”

“Nah, no worries, it’s fine,” Bucky cuts in. He plasters on a game smile. “Next time,” he says. Kate leans in and kisses him on the cheek. 

In fact it’s not fine. Brock had been promising to come to this show for weeks, as he was in New York earlier this week promoting a big music festival in Central Park. And Bucky had been looking forward to spending a few days with his boyfriend this weekend, even taking yesterday off from his internship so they would get more time together. 

And then Thursday night, Brock had called and said he had to cancel. He was running off that night to Madrid to deal with a “logistics emergency” with the ROSALÍA tour. When Bucky said he was really disappointed and tried to get Brock to reconsider, saying he really missed him, Brock had said that it was urgent and he was in the lounge at JFK already and they were calling his flight in a few minutes. “This is my job, this is why they pay me the big bucks, babe.” And that had been that.

Since then Bucky has wished a number of times that Brock would prioritize his boyfriend the way he prioritizes his job, but then immediately dismisses those thoughts as disloyal. And Brock did send a nice text from Spain yesterday afternoon, although it was pretty short.

_At least I didn’t tell Nick that Brock was supposed to be here,_ Bucky thinks, strolling over to get in the line of models for the show. _I’d never hear the end of it._ And in truth, he’s not sure how that combo would’ve worked, especially given that Nick has made his contempt for Brock so very clear and that Brock doesn’t know of Nick’s existence. 

Bucky says hi to the guys and women as he takes his place in the line. At 29, he’s generally older than all the other models and a bit more muscled than the guys, though he tries to keep his physique looking more dancer than football player. But he’s very professional and friendly and gets along well with the other models, which doesn’t always happen - there are plenty of prima donnas in this business - and he knows that’s a reason designers like to hire him. 

He realizes that at 29, he’s getting toward the end of his career as a runway model, especially since he stays local and never got picked up by the international designers. He’ll keep doing it as long as he can, since it’s usually fun and helps a lot to pay the bills while he’s in school. 

And Bucky thinks wryly that while Brock outwardly complains about his second job, constantly telling Bucky that people are taking advantage of him and his looks and his good nature, Brock also likes the glamor of this job and Bucky has overheard him boasting about his “model boyfriend” more than once.

“Ready everyone!” the backstage manager hisses just loudly to be heard over the heart-pounding music playing in the theater. Bucky comes out of his reverie with a start and quickly regains his focus, putting all thoughts of Brock aside. 

Sometimes he imagines different characters to “play” in fashion shoots and runway shows, but tonight he’s decided he’s just gonna be Bucky, turned up to 11. He lets the music move through him, and he smiles and his eyes sparkle as the line moves toward the curtain.

  
  
  


  
  
  


_Holy shit,_ thinks Bucky as he sits at the makeup table after the show getting all the slap off. He’s never had a fashion show go that well, ever. Usually there’s an issue with the quick changes, or people get snitty, but this show went like clockwork - Bucky could feel it flowing through him as he walked down the stage and the temporary catwalk. He really felt like himself, only more so, and it was intoxicating - he’s still feeling a little buzzed now that it’s all over. 

Bucky realizes that Nick’s waiting for him in the audience, and he hurries to get changed and cleaned up to go meet him. He puts his extra clothes and toiletries into his brand new brown leather Shinola weekend bag, a gift from Siriano to all his models. Siriano is really a prince - Bucky could never afford to get something this nice for himself right now. 

As he’s combing out his hair (hairspray, ugh), he hears two other models gossiping down the makeup table to his right. 

“Did you see that guy?” the woman says, giggling. “All in black, eyepatch, looking so intensely at all of us.” 

“Yes, girl,” the guy drawls in response. “He was quite something. Looked like something out of a superhero movie.”

Bucky rolls his eyes as he hears this. It’s just how Nick looks, for fuck’s sake. Bucky himself was so in the moment that he didn’t see Nick in the audience. He slides his eyes over to the models - they’re babies, really, barely 20 if that - and gives them a pass. He chuckles to himself and says goodbye to Kate and Christian and the other models before he heads out to the theater to find Nick.

Nick is sitting in the front row of the balcony, his all-black outfit standing out starkly against the rich red of the theater’s seats and decor. The rest of the audience has exited the theater and Bucky can hear the stragglers out in the lobby, exclaiming about the sudden rain and trying to organize cars. And indeed, he can hear the steady drum of raindrops on the theatre roof. 

“Bucky,” Fury says, standing up and smiling as he approaches. He’s wearing a long black duster over a tight black t-shirt and black jeans and does indeed look like he just walked out of a superhero movie. 

“Nick,” Bucky says, grinning and clapping his friend on the back. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” Fury responds, looking around. “I’ve never been to a fancy fashion show before. And I haven’t been to this theater in...” he trails off, eyes unfocused. “Well, it’s been a while,” he finally finishes, a little lamely. 

Bucky realizes there’s a story there, but he doesn’t push. He hasn’t known Fury that long, but he knows him well enough by now that he’ll tell Bucky what happened when and if he’s ready. 

“You want to go grab a drink?” Bucky asks as they stand by the seats. “Or a coffee? I can get us a Lyft back to the neighborhood...”

“Maybe in a bit,” Nick says, shaking his head. “Do you mind if we sit here for a while? I’m just enjoying taking in the vibe here.”

“Sure,” says Bucky, following Fury to sit back down next to the balcony. He’s a little taken aback by this request, but in his current mood he’s perfectly happy to comply. The rain continues to hammer on the roof. 

After a minute, Fury looks at Bucky, a slight smile on his face. 

“I grew up around here in Flatbush, just down the road. Forty years ago, maybe a little more, this was a movie theater. I sat in this balcony watching a movie with a couple of friends. It was spring and I was neck-deep in studying for exams at law school, but my friends forced me to come out with them, saying I needed a break. But I insisted on bringing my Federal Jurisdiction casebook to read while we were waiting for _The Guy from Harlem_ to start.” 

Fury chuckles to himself at the memory. 

“I’d put the book on the balcony ledge during the movie so I wouldn’t forget it,” Fury continues. “At the end of the movie, I stood up to stretch and knocked the book so it fell from the balcony to the floor below.” Fury points over the balcony to the ground.

Bucky’s eyes go wide. “Did it...”

“No, it didn’t hit anyone, thank heavens,” Nick cuts him off. “Happily there weren’t many people left in the theater at that point. But it did fall open, face down, to a random page. I ran down and picked it up, and read a few sentences. For some reason I saw it as a sign,” Fury shrugs a little. “So I studied that section again. It was the main focus of the exam a week or two later. I aced that class.”

Bucky is caught up in the story, and he drops his head a little as he says, “Wow. So it was lucky that you took that break to come see the movie, huh,” he says, mildly teasing. 

“Yeah,” says Nick, serious. “It recharged my battery and helped me get through exams.” He exhales a little. “And I really needed recharging at that point.” 

Bucky realizes that there’s another story here, but again he doesn’t push. If Nick wants to tell him, he’ll tell him. 

“My exams are pretty tough,” Bucky says ruefully. “So I imagine law school is just brutal.” Fury looks at him and smiles.

“It is,” he says. “It was. But it got me where I wanted to go, to be a judge.” Fury hesitates for a moment, still looking at Bucky. “I had that kind of pride back then,” he continues in a growl. “I had the idea that I knew what was right and wrong, that I could decide who was guilty and who wasn’t, that I had the right to mete out punishment.” He shakes his head. Bucky hears the rumble of thunder off in the distance over the rain and his stomach clenches.

“What happened to you, Nick,” he murmurs involuntarily. Then he pulls up short and says, “Oh God, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry...”

“It’s OK,” Fury says softly. “The reason I was so depleted as I was finishing law school was because of a woman,” he says. “She was in my class at NYU. She was beautiful and smart, lively and ambitious. She could light up a room just by coming into it.” His eyes sparkle as he turns his gaze away from Bucky and looks out into the empty theater. “She was my everything.” 

“She left you,” Bucky says suddenly, a puzzle piece shifting into place in his mind. “And you never knew why.” 

“Yes,” says Nick, looking at the floor. “I told you she was ambitious, and I always worried that as a lawyer or even a judge, I wouldn’t be enough for her. She always insisted that I was enough, but by the end of law school she’d gotten distant, wasn’t answering her phone or returning my calls. She said it was because of school, and I wanted to be persuaded by that...”

“But part of you wondered if it wasn’t something else, something more,” Bucky finishes for him. Tension is rising in his gut and he’s not quite sure why. This all sounds eerily familiar, like he’s seen this movie. 

“Exactly,” says Nick, nodding. “And then one day after I’d passed the bar exam, I was so excited that I went to her apartment without calling first. I wanted to surprise her and tell her the good news. But when I got there...”

“Oh no,” Bucky whispers, knowing where this is going. A giant clap of thunder sounds in the sky above them and he starts in his chair. 

“Yeah,” says Nick, kneading his hands together. “When I got there, her beautiful legs were splayed open, and there was another man between them.” He bites off every word as if it’s made of acid.

“Oh Nick,” says Bucky, his heart aching. Another thunderclap overhead, and he grips the arms of his seat to try to calm down. He’s always been a little afraid of big storms like this.

“He was a rich businessman with a lot of real estate,” Fury says. “His name was Hart. Harry Hart. He could give her the life she wanted. And I was a poor clerk for a judge, just starting out. I tried to get back at them. I followed them around the city to harass them when I could. I was angry,” he says. “And...humiliated.”

“That’s understandable,” Bucky says, crossing his arms over himself. The worst of the thunder is passing away, but his stomach is still churning. 

“Then one day all that evaporated when I read that she’d died,” Fury continues, clenching his hands in fists. “In an accident upstate. Harry was driving...he survived but she didn’t. There was no drinking and driving or anything, it was a freak thing when he swerved to avoid a deer.” 

He looks at Bucky. “But since she died, I’ve never loved anyone else. I never met the right woman, or maybe...” he hesitates, then goes on. “Maybe I never met anyone like you.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, this isn’t a proposition,” Fury says hastily, seeing Bucky’s eyes widen. “I’m not...not inclined that way anyway. It’s just an observation. But you’re such a good person, with such a good heart and so much love to give. Someone is going to be very lucky to have you.” 

Bucky can feel himself blushing under the compliments. “C’mon, Nick,” he says, fidgeting in his chair, but it’s a weak protest. 

“That’s not the end of the story,” Nick says, staring back at the stage. “Six or seven years ago now, I was contemplating retirement but was leaning toward staying on the bench for a while, when I was assigned a difficult case. A case against...Harry Hart.” 

At this, Bucky sucks in a breath. “No,” he says. He’s so caught up in the story that he barely registers the crew moving around above in the catwalks and onstage. “You...you shouldn’t have taken that case, Nick.” 

“I know,” Fury nods his head. “But I wanted to. All the events of forty years ago came rushing back into my head. And he didn’t recognize me or remember me, so he didn’t object. One of his buildings had collapsed soon after it was built, several people were badly hurt, and one died. It came out during the trial that he’d been colluding with the construction company owner to use shoddy building materials and skim the profits off the top.” 

Fury sits back in the seat and looks pointedly at Bucky. “It was a civil case, but for some reason he opted for a bench trial instead of a jury. I ruled against him at every stage. He ended up owing millions when he settled before my ruling, and it ruined him. My actions were all perfectly legal and above board. But soon after that I took the option to retire earlier.” 

“Oh Nick,” Bucky says, shaking his head. Suddenly everything about Fury makes sense: his loneliness, his isolation, his bitterness and his disillusioned view of other people. “I’m so sorry. For all of it.” 

“It’s not your—“ Nick is saying when a crew member shouts at them from the stage. 

“Hey, we’re gonna turn off the house lights now,” he yells.

Bucky looks at him and waves and yells back. “OK, we’re leaving now. Thanks for the heads-up.” 

They stand up and make their way quickly down the stairs and toward the theater exit. The air is cooler now - it’s still raining but not much, and the thunder is only a distant echo. Nick orders them a Lyft as they stand under the outside awning.

“I had a dream about you the other night, Bucky,” Nick says as they’re waiting. 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky responds with interest. 

“You were 50 or 60 years old, and you were happy,” Fury goes on. “You were just waking up, and you smiled at someone next to you in the bed.” 

“Did you see who?” Bucky asks quickly, his heartbeat quickening. He doesn’t know why, but he somehow feels like the answer to this question is urgent and vital. For some reason an image of the drunk blond guy that he helped into bed and kissed pops into his head, and his stomach flutters.

“I didn’t see them,” Nick says quietly. “But you were older, and you were happy.”

“And that’s what’s going to happen?” demands Bucky. “In 20 or 30 years?” 

“Yes,” answers Nick, simply but with conviction. 

Bucky stares at Nick for a moment. “What else do you know? Who are you?” he asks. 

Fury smiles at Bucky and shrugs. “A retired judge,” he says. 

Bucky looks at him and then away. He takes a deep breath. A feeling is rising from his gut through his chest and it occurs to him that it’s the scariest and most wonderful - and truest - feeling he’s ever had. It reminds him of that night with the drunk blond guy, when life felt right and everything fell into place, even just for five minutes. 

“This will sound weird,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “But I have this sense that all these important things are happening around me, and I’m somehow connected to all of them. And it’s really comforting and scares the shit out of me at the same time. I dunno.” Bucky runs his fingers through his hair and looks at Fury uncertainly. “That’s really weird, right?”

“No, not at all,” Fury says. “That’s life, Bucky. Especially if you’re paying attention.” He smiles at Bucky and puts his hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s all going to be alright, Bucky,” he says, seeing Bucky’s worried expression hasn’t changed. “Really. Trust me, it will.” 

Bucky smiles back and claps his hand over Nick’s for a moment. A minute later the Lyft pulls up in front of the theater.

  
  
  


  
  
  


Steve walks down the street toward the French bistro and looks up at the sky. It’s Saturday night in mid-August; it’s overcast and humid and the wind’s picked up but the thunderstorm they’ve forecast hasn’t hit the city just yet. In his current mood he almost wishes it would, just for the extra drama. 

And boy, Steve is all about the extra drama right now. It’s not really in his nature - Steve is generally more steadfast, with a loyal and loving heart - but Jack’s treachery and the way Steve found out about Jack and the older man has scarred his heart and warped his spirit. 

Steve knows now that Jack’s other boyfriend is Alexander Pierce, billionaire CEO of a private equity fund. He knows he can’t compete with this guy for extravagant gifts and fancy dates, but he’s also resentful that he even has to, remembering that Jack always protested when Steve would worry that he wasn’t enough for Jack, saying things like “Your love is all I need” or “I love just getting wings and Budweisers with you.” 

_And it was all a lie,_ Steve thinks, walking down the street toward the warm lights of the restaurant. He’s found Jack’s other Facebook and Instagram accounts and he knows now that Jack’s been cheating on him with Pierce for several months. He can feel that cling film wrapping even thicker around his heart now, protecting him from the hurt and pain but turning him bitter and angry. All his love for Jack is corroding and acidizing into hate. 

Sam realized something was wrong when he called last weekend from Venice to see how Steve was doing. Steve had tried to make out like everything was fine, saying he was at a party and things were great. (And he was at a party - his work colleague Darcy was throwing a barbecue at her place near Prospect Park - but he’d begged off early after a burger and a couple of beers.) 

But Sam had obviously known better, and a few days later, Nat had FaceTimed Steve from some idyllic-looking cottage overlooking a warm blue sea - the Dalmatian Coast, she said - and had ruthlessly pulled it out of him. She heard all about Jack’s cheating and stayed quiet and mostly diplomatic, only muttering some evil-sounding words in Russian under her breath when Steve told her about the scene at Le Bernardin. 

At the end of the call, though, Nat had urged Steve to make a clean break with Jack and move on, for his own sake.

“I know, I know, he’s a total говнюк,” Nat said sympathetically. “But just kick him to the curb for good and go have some fun. I know you’re working crazy hours at the court, but there’s gotta be someone to hang out with. What about this Darcy girl?”

“Darcy’s great,” Steve had admitted, and he thought briefly to himself that if he were in a different headspace, he’d totally be into her. “But Nat...I can’t just snap my fingers and get over Jack. I really thought he was the one.” 

(As he’d said “the one,” though, an image had flashed into his head of the kind stranger who’d taken care of him when he was so drunk...the one he’d kissed under the bedside lamp...why can’t he remember their face? Their mouth on his...opening up to him...their fingers threading through his hair... _oh god..._ )

“I know, Steve,” Nat had said. “But he’s not the one, and the sooner you accept that, tell the fucker you’re done and it’s over, and grieve about it, the sooner you can get on with your life.” 

But here’s Steve now, all alone on a Saturday night, going to disrupt his boyfriend’s (ex-boyfriend’s?) romantic dinner for two at Le Bateau Ivre. It’s weird, though - since Steve found out Jack’s been two-timing him, Jack has actually been more responsive, calling Steve regularly, texting him nice things, asking when they can get together “so we can talk.” 

Steve realizes this is Jack wanting to truly break things off with him, and he’s taken a perverse pleasure in ignoring the texts, or hanging up suddenly from calls, saying, “Sorry, Jack, I gotta go, work emergency.” He wants Jack to feel the same doubt and uncertainty he’s felt, the same worry and uneasiness over Something Not Quite Right. It’s not Steve’s usual way of doing things, but he feels like a new person, curdled and vengeful. 

The bistro appears on Steve’s right, and he takes a deep breath. He sees Jack and Pierce sitting by the big plate glass window, having an intimate dinner for two. Pierce is feeding Jack something off his plate and they’re both laughing. 

Steve stealthily sidles up to the window in the dark, just as the rain starts pouring down. 

_Good_ , thinks Steve with a perverted sense of satisfaction. _Bring it all down._ He stands right next to them, less than a foot away through the glass, brings up his hand, and places it on the window, glaring intently at Jack. 

Pierce notices first and then Jack follows his eyes and startles as he sees Steve standing there, soaking wet, staring at him like Nemesis. Then Jack says “Steve!” and Steve can hear it, muffled through the glass, and he sees Jack run toward the door. 

Instinctively Steve runs away and hides behind a pillar of the building next door, breathing hard as the rain pelts down on his face.

“Steve!” he hears Jack’s voice, calling out from the bistro entrance. “Steve, please! C’mon, Steve, let’s talk. Steve!” 

This goes on for a couple of minutes before another, lower voice which must be Pierce’s is heard in the background. What the voice says is unintelligible, but Jack’s yelling stops and Steve doesn’t see the couple again. 

Steve remains where he is behind the pillar for a good half an hour after that, listening to the thunder and getting soaked by the rain, his face set, his eyes staring at nothing, the lightning flashing and highlighting the ticking muscle in his jaw. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kings Theater is a real theater in Bushwick, Brooklyn - it was a movie theater until 1980, then closed and refurbished and reopened years later as a live venue. It’s a beautiful space - check it out online! 
> 
> I don’t know much of anything about fashion shows, so please excuse any errors I’ve made in describing this one.
> 
> The word говнюк (govnyuk) means “shithead” in Russian. Totally agree, Natasha. 
> 
> Le Bateau Ivre is a tiny French bistro in east midtown. It’s probably too homey and low-profile for two poseurs like Pierce and Jack, but I love it a lot (and miss it a lot in these times of no traveling) so I wanted to give it a shout-out.


	7. I Don’t Want to Lose You Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey Nick, d’you know how to get to Staten Island?” Bucky says casually because, though he’s lived in New York for most of his life, he’s actually never been there. 
> 
> Fury laughs out loud. “You can drive there,” he says. “It’s just over the Verrazano. But it’s not worth renting a car if you’re just going for the weekend. Take the ferry.” 
> 
> ...in which Bucky meets Bella’s puppies and tries to be upbeat about an upcoming long weekend with Brock on Staten Island (?), and Steve still can’t let Jack go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No violence or tragedy, just terrible boyfriends (and their secret boyfriends) being terrible

The knocks on the door of the little brownstone are excited and persistent. Fury looks up from his armchair and smiles. 

“Come in!” he calls. 

Bucky comes barreling in, excited and breathless and starry-eyed. He sees Fury in the corner of the living room, the little particle board pen they built together next to him in front of the fireplace. 

“Hey Nick! So...? Bella...?” Bucky is excited enough that he can barely get words out right now. Fury calmly gestures toward the box. 

“Good to see you, too, Bucky,” Fury says drily. “The queen is here with her new subjects, and she’s accepting visitors.” 

Bucky grins and sets his messenger bag down by the couch as he approaches the pen.

“Sorry I wasn’t there for the birth,” he babbles apologetically. “Work has been insane the last couple of days - big presentation for Stark himself and Banner, his head of R&D, to cap off my internship - and then last night I wanted to swing by the hospital but...well...”

Bucky trails off, wincing inwardly at the big fight he and Brock had had over FaceTime late last night after he got home from his internship. I mean, it worked out in the end - if, by “worked out” you mean “Bucky caved and sucked it up as usual and then they had phone sex,” but...before that...it was not good. 

And the fight was about the same thing as usual - Brock had said he would come home this weekend and now he has to go to Amsterdam. Bucky hasn’t seen his boyfriend in three months and is honestly feeling pretty hurt and neglected right now, but he doesn’t want to tell Nick and give him any more ammunition to strengthen his prejudices about Brock. But at least there’s some good news on that front.

“No worries,” Fury says gently, breaking through Bucky’s thoughts. “Everything went smoothly and everyone just got home from the vet this morning. All the pups are healthy, and Bella’s doing great. Oh, and Sharon says hi.”

“Hi, Sharon,” says Bucky into the air to the absent veterinarian, kneeling down and peeking into the box. Bella is lying down against the far side and looks up suspiciously, ready to defend her young, but when she sees Bucky she breaks into a smile and pants a little, her caramel eyebrows dancing. 

“Hi, Bella, hey girl,” croons Bucky in a voice that could melt icicles and turn stone into jelly. He reaches in and gives her head and ears a good skritch, then turns his attention to the puppies. 

There are five of them, little nuggets with closed eyes and rounded faces sleeping close together in a row, sheltered on three sides by their mother and on the other by a warm fleece blanket rolled up the side of the pen. Two of them are mostly black with tan markings like their mother, two others have black stripes down their backs with brownish tan sides, and one is tan on the top and white underneath. Bucky looks at them, then at Fury.

“Wow, Nick, they’re adorable!” he gushes. “All these different colors...”

Fury chuckles. “Yeah,” he says, leaning forward. “That was a surprise. It looks like their father is tan and white, though we have no idea who he is, or what kind of dog. Sharon said she thinks he might be a Finnish lapphund, given their head and ears and markings, and how dense their coats are.” 

“A Finnish...what?” Bucky goes through pictures of dogs in his head and fails to come up with an image for this breed. Fury chuckles again, grabs his phone off the side table, and pulls up a photo of a tan and white lapphund to show Bucky. 

“Not too common in the States,” he says. “A little shorter than an English shepherd but kind of a similar temperament...and even fluffier.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Bucky says, looking in awe at the photo. “They’re amazing! And look at that tail floof!” 

“Yep,” says Fury, putting the phone down. “You can’t tell now about the fluff, of course.” The puppies’ tails are long for their bodies but they and their bodies don’t currently look like they have that much fur on them. 

Bucky looks back down at the puppies with starry eyes, leaning over the pen wall to stroke down their soft backs. 

“They’re so soft,” he murmurs. He hesitates for a minute, then looks at Fury. “Nick, can I...can I have one? When they’re old enough to leave their mom, I mean. And if you haven’t promised them all to people already...”

“Of course,” Fury says, smiling. “I haven’t promised any of them to anyone yet. And anyway, you get first choice.” 

Now it’s Nick’s turn to hesitate. “Is having a puppy going to be alright for...for your situation?” 

For an instant Bucky thinks Nick is talking about his apartment and his work schedule, but then he realizes Nick is asking about Brock, as diplomatically as he can manage. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly. “Yeah, it’ll work out. I’ll make it work.” 

“Do you know which one you’d like?” Fury says, leaning over to look at the puppies. “I mean, no hurry, but you get first choice and I’ll keep aside the one you want for as long as you need.” 

“Thanks, Nick,” Bucky says, smiling. “Will you choose for me? When the time comes?” 

It’s obvious that Fury is touched by this request, as he’s struck dumb for a moment and then has to turn away and clear his throat a few times.

“Of course,” he says gruffly, turning back with shiny eyes. “Happy to.” 

At this point, the puppies wake up and start mewling and squeaking. They tumble awkwardly over each other to get closer to Bella, then latch on to her and start eating. Bella looks up at Bucky with an expression that’s half-proud, half-resigned. 

“Tough being a mama, isn’t it, Bella girl,” says Bucky, skritching her head again. 

After the puppies eat and relieve themselves and Bella has cleaned up her newborn nest, Bucky again pets the pups. They stumble around and barely open their eyes, but they seem to lean into Bucky’s hand and his heart soars. 

“They’re so cute,” he says, leaning back against the couch and watching them. “They can leave their mom at like eight or ten weeks?” 

Fury nods. “So around late October, early November,” he replies. Bucky thinks about the timeline.

“That should work,” he says. “I’ll be back at school and TA’ing a class, but I won’t have a 9 to 5 job then, just the modeling gigs.”

“And...your boyfriend?” Fury brings up Brock again, raising his eyebrows. 

“Fall is always a busy time for Brock, he’s hardly ever in the city then. It’ll be fine,” Bucky says with more confidence than he actually feels. 

“Oh, but good news on that front,” he says with bravado. “Brock will be here in less than two weeks! He’s borrowing his buddy’s house on Staten Island and we’re spending the weekend there. And it’ll be a long weekend since I have Labor Day off.” 

“Staten Island?” Fury queries. “Doesn’t he have his own place uptown?” 

“Yeah, but this way we get a little break, kind of away from the city,” Bucky responds, trying to sound positive and upbeat. 

“You couldn’t go to The Hamptons? Or Fire Island? Somewhere with a really nice beach?” Nick says with mild incredulity. 

“Well...Brock has to be back in town first thing Tuesday after the holiday so he didn’t want to go that far away,” says Bucky, whose confident voice has taken on a slight tinge of desperation. “Anyway, Nick, I’m so psyched to see him. And then we’re going to St. Bart’s in late September. Or early to mid-October. Sometime in there.” 

Fury looks for a moment like he’s going to grill Bucky on the logistics of that Caribbean trip, but then looks at Bucky’s strained face and pleading eyes, and relents. 

“That sounds great, Bucky,” Nick says. “I hope you have a really nice time.” 

Bucky relaxes a little. He really doesn’t want to get into the details of the St. Bart’s trip, especially because Brock has been saying for weeks now that he’ll make the reservations and the last time Bucky asked him about it, he bit Bucky’s head off. But he doesn’t want to think about that right now, and just focuses on the anticipation of their upcoming weekend.

“Hey Nick, d’you know how to get to Staten Island?” Bucky says casually because, though he’s lived in New York for most of his life, he’s actually never been there. 

Fury laughs out loud. “You can drive there,” he says. “It’s just over the Verrazano. But it’s not worth renting a car if you’re just going for the weekend. Take the ferry.” 

“The ferry. Nice,” Bucky murmurs. “I’ll go that Friday night right after work. It’s my last day at Stark Industries.” He’s never taken the Staten Island Ferry, as many times as he’s seen it in the harbor from Brooklyn Bridge Park. He was supposed to do a shoot on the ship once, but it got moved indoors because of bad weather. 

“Can I get you a beer?” Fury stands up and heads toward the kitchen. 

“Sure,” says Bucky, scrambling to his feet. He follows Nick through the living room and notices that there’s only one monitor on his desk now, which is on and looks to be running a continuous feed on some social media platform or other. 

Fury comes back from the kitchen and passes Bucky an open bottle of Brooklyn Lager. As Bucky takes a swig, Fury checks the monitor. 

“Huh,” he says and takes a sip from his own bottle. 

“What,” Bucky says reluctantly. He’s still uncomfortable with Nick’s spying habit, though he does acknowledge that it’s sometimes interesting to hear about people in the neighborhood. 

“That guy Jack who’s cheating on his younger boyfriend with that old rich guy just posted something,” Fury answers. 

Bucky has a strange feeling of deja vu.  _ Jack _ . Where has he heard that name recently? His mind links it to some significant event...something out of the ordinary that happened to him in the last few weeks, but he can’t place it. Oh well. It’s such a common name anyway. Could be any one of fifty two-timing Jacks. 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky says, leaning in. Maybe if he sees this guy’s picture it’ll trigger his memory.

“He and his sugar daddy are heading out on a yachting excursion,” Fury says drily. “From Brooklyn Marina. On the Labor Day weekend when you’re going to Staten Island. What a coincidence, huh?”

Bucky studies the photo of the dark-haired younger guy and his handsome older blond boyfriend. They look so familiar and yet he can’t remember where he’s seen them. 

“They look happy,” Bucky says softly, touching Fury on the shoulder. “It’s nice they’re getting away for the weekend. Good for them.”

Fury turns and raises his eyebrows. “Not so good for the other boyfriend.” 

“C’mon, Nick, they probably broke up and the other boyfriend is with someone awesome now,” Bucky protests. “Someone who appreciates him.” He remembers that Nick showed him a photo of Jack and this other boyfriend - who was also blond - back when they first met in early July, but doesn’t remember what Younger Blond Boyfriend looks like. 

Fury says nothing. He knows from social media that this isn’t the case, that Steve Rogers hasn’t found anyone new, but he also knows his hobby is creepy and disturbing to Bucky so he doesn’t want to push on the topic. 

“Anyway,” Nick says, “Let’s finish our beers and catch the end of the game. Before you got here they were up 3-1.” 

“Hope you didn’t jinx it, buddy,” Bucky says sarcastically as they walk away from the desk to turn on the TV.

Later that night in his apartment, just as he’s about to drift off, Bucky remembers that the two guys who are going on the yachting vacation are the same two in the Range Rover who ran over Bella in late June. The thought is enough to jar him awake, and it takes him another hour to settle down and go to sleep. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


It’s late Wednesday night and Steve is lying on his bed in his room, drinking a beer and dressed only in a t-shirt and boxers. The Mets game is on his TV in the background, but the volume’s low and he’s not really watching. They were up 3-1 at the bottom of the sixth and now at the end of the eighth they’re down 4-3. Fucking Gsellman. 

He checks his phone for the fortieth time since he got home an hour ago but there’s no updates. Steve’s found Jack’s other Facebook and Instagram accounts, the ones that proclaim he’s “in a relationship” with Alexander Pierce and feature photos of them smiling in every posh place in the city, about a week ago. He hasn’t posted anything on them, partly because he’s not quite That Asshole (yet) but mostly because he doesn’t want Jack to realize he’s found them and block him. 

Most of the entries are of past dinners and concerts and romantic walks in the park, so Steve hasn’t been able to stalk Jack and pull the stunt from the French bistro again, but that’s OK. He knows where Jack lives and has managed to put himself in the corner of Jack’s vision a couple of times after work, make him turn around and wonder if that was really Steve or if his mind was playing tricks on him. 

After his appearance at the bistro, Jack has called Steve a few times and texted him a lot more, all pleading with Steve that “we need to talk” or “please pick up Steve, it’s important,” or  _ Cmon, Steve, let’s settle this pls. _ But Steve has resolutely refused to answer. If he talks to Jack, it means it’s really and truly over, and the bitterness in his heart at how this all worked out is stubborn and terrible, unwilling to let go. 

And Jack’s not the only one asking him to settle this - every time Sam and Nat call or text him from Europe, they bring it up. Sam knows his best friend is a proud and stubborn sumbitch, so he tries his best to be diplomatic and appeal to Steve’s nobler side, but Nat has given up on that approach and tells him what bad choices he’s making and what an asshole he’s being every time they talk. 

Nat usually follows this up with several strings of incredibly ominous-sounding Russian words which are probably not only calling him a giant fuckweasel, but also cursing his family back six or seven generations and willing his dick to fall off. Steve listens politely and then says, “спасибо большое, Natalya” with a curled lip, at which point Nat gives the phone back to Sam before she has an aneurysm. 

The last time Nat and Sam called Steve was a few days ago, on Sunday afternoon. On their FaceTime, they resolutely ignored the Jack issue and focused on asking Steve about his job and telling him about their stay in Croatia and how they were heading up to Vienna next before they fly home the weekend after Labor Day. 

Thinking back on this call as he lies in bed, phone on the pillow next to him, Steve feels relief but also some uneasiness. He wonders if his best friends have decided to ignore the Jack situation because they’re hoping he’s moved on, or because they’ve given up on him. It’s a strange, hollow feeling. 

Because, honestly, there is a part of Steve deep down that realizes that this behavior and attitude aren’t really him and what he’s doing isn’t right. He should talk to Jack and let Jack break up with him so Steve can grieve and get over him. He should be the bigger person, act like the mature one here and forgive Jack. He should move on and think about looking for someone else...

DING

Steve’s train of thought is broken by his notifications, which let him know that Jack’s just posted something new to Facebook. He grabs the phone and takes a look. 

It’s a picture of a huge, sparkling-white sailboat sitting in a big slip at ONE15 Marina. The caption proclaims that Jack and his wonderful boyfriend are taking a sailing trip to the Hamptons for the Labor Day weekend. They leave a week from Saturday, first thing in the morning. 

As Steve takes in this news, a comment appears on the post from Alexander Pierce. 

_ Can’t wait to take my favorite guy along the coast and enjoy his company for three days. We’ll get to see lots of the beauty this great state has to offer, starting with the trip out of New York Harbor. We’ll salute Lady Liberty as we sail by!!  _ 🇺🇸

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Steve mutters as he sees this. He rolls his eyes and throws the phone on the sheets. Any goodwill and thought that he was entertaining of being the bigger person flies out the window as he thinks that his ex’s new boyfriend is not just an asshole, he’s a super corny bastard as well. And they’ll be off on a glamorous sailing vacation and out of his reach for the long weekend. 

He briefly considers trying to follow them along Long Island, but even in his current mindset he realizes that’s not possible, as he doesn’t know where they’ll be day by day and besides, he doesn’t have a car.

Steve turns up the volume on the Mets game. The hometown boys are trying to rally in the bottom of the ninth, but ultimately they can’t do it and leave two guys stranded on base and lose 4-3. 

“Fucking Gsellman,” Steve says, turning the TV off. He finishes his beer and stalks off to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. As he does so the layer of protective film tightens around his heart and he feels bitterness and resentment flood over him with a certain level of grim satisfaction. 

Although there’s still that very small part of him, right in the back of his head, going  _ Help me. I don’t want to be this person. I need to get out of this and move on.  _ He shoves it aside as he gets into bed.

As he’s falling asleep, a crazy and probably terrible idea pops into his head. The Staten Island Ferry. If he gets on the right one, maybe he can time it right and make a scene at Pierce’s boat as they sail by. It’s very dumb and incredibly juvenile, sure, but it would be quite the sendoff for the wonder couple as they leave on their glamorous weekend vacation. Just thinking about it makes the bad side of Steve thrill with perverse gratification. It’s definitely an option he’ll keep open.

  
  
  


  
  
  


That night, Steve has a dream, a dream that’s so clear and authentic-feeling that you’re convinced it’s real life. He’s twenty years older and he’s a successful and celebrated judge, and he’s lying in a beautiful soft bed. He turns his head and sees his cherished spouse of many years lying next to him asleep, dark hair fanned out on the pillow. 

For a brief instant Steve doesn’t recognize the man, but within seconds his beloved’s eyes open and stare into his and he smiles. 

It’s the model from the clothing ads in the subway, the one Steve saw in the street last year when he dropped his law casebook. Steve smiles back. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finnish Lapphunds originated in Finland (duh) and are amazing looking dogs with world-class floof. Google them for a smile. 
> 
> Robert Gsellman is a relief pitcher for the New York Mets.
> 
> After Nat rakes Steve over the coals, Steve just says спасибо большое (spasibo bolshoye) or “thanks very much” in Russian, because he’s a little shit.
> 
> Worry not, friends, better things are coming!


	8. They Took You Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky look each other full in the face, next to the railing of the Staten Island Ferry on this beautiful summer morning. Their whole encounter so far has taken maybe five to seven minutes. Slowly they start smiling, their faces lit up with recognition and happiness. The sun sparkles on the water below them and the deep throb of the ferry engines vibrates at their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: scary moment at end of chapter, ongoing assholery from a certain boyfriend

_ “Welcome aboard the Staten Island Ferry. Please take a moment and pay attention to the following safety announcements. During docking, stay off the stairs, ramps, and landings until the ferry has come to a complete stop at the terminal...” _

Bucky stands at the railing on the second deck of the ferry as it pulls away from Battery Park, half-listening to the recorded announcement, and looks out west over Lower Manhattan. It’s a view he knows well, having spent much of his life in Brooklyn, but it never fails to thrill him. 

It helps that it’s a beautiful Saturday morning in early September, the sun streaming in behind him and a cool breeze floating down the river. The air is refreshing but it’s already warm and promises to get warmer as the morning goes on. There are a good number of people on the boat, mostly tourists and families, but it’s fairly early Saturday morning and the commuting hordes are elsewhere celebrating the last weekend of the summer. 

But let’s be frank. Before he got on the ferry this morning, Bucky was frustrated and downhearted. The original plan, as he’d told Nick ten days ago, was for Bucky to travel out Friday night to meet Brock at the borrowed house on Staten Island. And, in fact, Bucky had brought his fancy new weekend bag to his internship yesterday so he could go straight from work at Stark Industries to the ferry terminal. 

But just before six, as Bucky was cleaning up his desk and saying goodbye to his co-workers on the last day of his internship, Brock had called his cell. 

“Hey Brock!” Bucky had said, trying and failing to keep the excitement out of his voice. 

“Hey babe,” Brock had said, hard to hear because of the loud music and background noise.  _ Was he not alone at the house? What the fuck?  _ “Something’s come up and I need you to wait til tomorrow morning to come out to the house, ‘kay?” 

“Wait, what?” Bucky had stumbled out, not able to immediately process what was happening. “Are you OK? Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Brock had said impatiently. “I’m fine. It’s just...something came up so can you come over tomorrow. Catch the 8.30 ferry and I’ll come meet you at like 9. 9.30 at the latest.” 

“Uh...OK,” said Bucky, feeling his heart sink into his shoes. “That’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. I lo—” And then, as he was about to say “I love you,” all his secret emotions and worries had surged up inside him and he’d involuntarily blurted out, a little too loudly, “Hey Brock, do you love me?” 

There had been a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and someone laughed over the loud music in the background. 

“What?” Brock had said in a tone equal parts confused and annoyed. 

“Do you love me?” Bucky had repeated. He’d known he was on shaky ground, but something in him had driven him to vomit it up.  _ Better to know, _ he’d thought wildly. 

“I mean, I think I do,” Brock had said, impatience again coming to the fore. 

“You love me, or you think you love me?” Bucky had persisted.

“It’s the same thing,” Brock had replied, now dismissive. “OK, babe, gotta go, see you tomorrow!” 

“OK, see you then,” Bucky had said, subdued. The line had gone dead and he’d stared at the phone for a minute. 

_ But it’s not the same thing,  _ Bucky had thought as he’d scooped up his bag and shuffled disappointedly toward the office elevators.  _ Not the same thing at all.  _

He’d gone home and watched the Mets game. Bucky had briefly considered calling his friend and agent Gabe, or some of his model friends, to see if they wanted to go out, but realized pretty quickly that his heart wasn’t in it and he wasn’t really up for socializing. He couldn’t even call Nick and visit Bella and the puppies, since Nick thought he was on his way to Staten Island already and Bucky didn’t want to admit that he wasn’t going yet. 

As he’d sat on his couch watching the game, a voice very like Nick’s had intruded into his head, with that old refrain: 

_ He doesn’t love you, get out, he doesn’t love you, get out... _

“AAAAAHHHHH!!” Bucky had shouted after a few minutes to drown it out. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!!” 

And then to distract himself and burn off the excess emotion he’d slid to the floor and done forty pushups, fifty tricep dips, fifty double leg lifts, two hundred crunches, and thirty burpees. Fuck yeah, fitness! The solution to all life’s problems! By the time he was done the Mets had won and he was sweaty and exhausted. He’d taken a cool shower and flung himself into bed.

But now, this morning on the ferry, Bucky decides to put all that doubt and fear behind him and embrace the prospect of a fun weekend with his boyfriend. OK, maybe it’ll be a little bit shorter, but still. A weekend. 

At least he’ll get to spend time with Brock, which he hasn’t done in months. They can reconnect and rekindle the magic they had in the past. Well...rekindle the magic, or at least reassure Bucky that this relationship isn’t completely one-sided and he’s holding onto a non-existent fantasy with someone who doesn’t really care about him and uses him when he finds it convenient. This thought surfaces unbidden in his mind and he has more trouble than usual brushing it aside.

However. Here he is on the ferry, going to see Brock on Staten Island. The view of the city and the Statue of Liberty at the south end of the island may be cliché, but it is second to none and the breeze that’s ruffling his hair is stoking his anticipation and sense of adventure. He drops his bag by his feet and leans over the railing a bit, his excitement building for the weekend despite all his doubts and fears. 

Bucky catches movement out of the corner of his eye and realizes that someone’s come to stand by the railing to his left, about eight or ten feet away from him beyond the deck pillar. He flicks his eyes that way and gets the fleeting impression of a well-built blond, tall - maybe a couple inches taller than he is? - wearing a tight lemon yellow short-sleeve button down with a tiny pattern, untucked over navy slim-cut shorts. Mmmm, very nice. 

Another quick peep confirms that Boyfriend is  _ stacked _ . His shoulders and pecs are huge and his biceps are bulging out of his shirt. He doesn’t skip leg day either and his ass is filling out those shorts nicely. Bucky would never claim to have a type  _ per se,  _ but this guy is even more ripped than Brock and Bucky has to admit that does something for him. OK, that does a lot for him. To him.  _ Whatever _ .

In a flash Bucky decides that it’ll be fun to flirt with this guy for the duration of the ferry ride. Or at least, you know, covertly ogle him. It’s allowed, right? No harm in looking...and wow is this guy fun to look at. And he might be...looking back? At least once or twice, though he seems to be looking intently off in front of the ferry as well. What is he looking at? There’s just water in his line of vision and, off in the distance, Staten Island. 

After a few more casual glances, a huge feeling of deja vu washes over Bucky. This guy...he knows this guy. Does he know this guy? Is he a model? Is he at Columbia? Does he work at Stark Industries? Bucky’s brain cycles through all the places he might know Blond, Stacked, and Gorgeous (BSG) from, and for a minute or two he comes up short. 

Then Bucky takes a good look while BSG is looking out toward the water and he suddenly remembers that jawline under a bedside lamp in an apartment in Brooklyn Heights...and staring into that face, gorgeous even when falling down drunk, and feeling those lips press on his, warm and soft, as he surged up from the bed. And Bucky remembers the feeling of  _ rightness _ in that kiss, and the longing and passion in his touch, and feeling safe and whole in this guy’s arms. 

_ Holy shit,  _ Bucky thinks, turning his gaze back toward the water and feeling himself go pink. His breath turns shallow and his heart is beating rapidly. 

_ This can’t be a coincidence, _ he thinks.

He remembers that night in the theater a few weeks ago, talking to Nick during the thunderstorm, and again that feeling sweeps over him, the wonder and enormity of being connected to everything. And the thought surfaces suddenly in his mind that he’s somehow especially connected to this guy, and has been for a long time. The thought is comforting...and not at all terrifying. It just feels  _ right _ . 

This feeling takes hold of Bucky and he decides to approach this guy, talk to him, hell, maybe even find out his name. He is generally pretty reserved in regular life, but the gentle breeze in his face and the epiphany in his heart stiffen his resolve. He turns to face the blond man.

  
  
  


  
  
  


Steve almost didn’t take the ferry this morning. He’d woken up tired from a long week at work and happy hour last night with Darcy and the other clerks celebrating the long weekend, and had lain in bed, letting inertia and exhaustion wash over him. 

No need to do this, right? He’s shown Jack and his sugar daddy, tortured them enough. He can just send Jack a text in a few minutes, something short and vitriolic like,  _ It’s over, fuck you _ and get on with his life. 

But then he’d thought of the last month, of all the tears he cried that first night when he saw Jack and Pierce together at Le Bernardin and got wasted to numb the pain, of all the resentment and bitterness about his ill-treatment and the way Jack lied to him for so long. And, lying in bed, a wave of anger had washed over him and roused him to shower and dress carefully before heading across the river to the ferry terminal. 

_ Why shouldn’t I see them off, _ he’d thought, scowling, as he’d boarded the boat just behind a tall well-built person with shoulder-length dark hair.  _ Why should I just let them get away with it and go off on their fabulous sailing weekend. _

For the first few minutes of the ferry ride he’d stood on the port railing on the second deck, looking over toward Brooklyn, and then he’d seen Pierce’s magnificent sailboat gleaming white in the summer sunlight. It was moving ahead of them a bit to the left, chugging slowly southwest through the harbor. He’d figured the sailboat would cross in front of the ferry and he’d get the best view of Jack and Pierce on the other side of the deck.

But now as he leans over the starboard side of the boat, his neck craned to catch a glimpse of the sailboat, he wonders what exactly he’s going to do when he sees them. Yell? Wave? Cause a scene? Jump in the harbor? He rolls his eyes at himself at this last one, because he’s not usually such a drama queen and would generally scoff at even considering such a move.

_ Or maybe, _ a voice pops into his head,  _ you could just let them go and get on with your own life. _ The voice sounds suspiciously like Natasha’s. He sighs. 

At this point he realizes that someone’s standing about eight feet to his right, a few feet behind that deck pillar. The person is leaning over the rail in a suppressed state of excitement and keeps stealing glances at him as if they know him. 

Steve takes a quick look and his breath catches a little in this throat. This guy (and it  _ is _ a guy) is beautiful in an almost otherworldly way. The breeze is blowing his hair back and the sun sparkling on the water below emphasizes his blue eyes and cheekbones that could kill at twenty paces. 

He’s wearing a deep raspberry colored shirt and light grey slim-fit twill pants and looks altogether like a Renaissance angel from a painting come to life, if only Renaissance angels wore the latest in designer sportswear. And -  _ holy shit _ \- he seems to be not-so-secretly sizing Steve up. Steve, a veteran of many such scenarios in bars over the years, can tell, and to be honest, he’s pretty psyched. For the first time in a long time, he’s not thinking about Jack and the wrong Jack did to him. 

A few more covert glances from Steve and he begins to get the strangest feeling. This guy...he knows this guy. Does he know this guy? He doesn’t work at the court, or Steve would know him right away. Is he at NYU? Does he go to Steve’s gym? Frequent the same coffee shop in Brooklyn?

Then the angel turns his head and looks directly at Steve, and he suddenly remembers that face smiling at him from a Brooklyn street and the dropped law casebook…

...and that face, smiling at him warmly under wet hair, riding down the Clark Street escalator as Steve rode up into a rainstorm...

...and that face, open and sad, staring out from an ad at a bus stop (is that the same shirt?)...

...and that face, eyes fluttering closed as Steve kissed him when Steve was so drunk...was that really him that night? Even though that night is fuzzy and he can’t strictly remember, somehow Steve knows it was him, the certainty settling deep and grounding in his chest...

...and that face in his dream the other night, smiling at him from the other pillow twenty years in the future...

Steve’s stomach flips over and his eyes widen a little as he looks at the beautiful man, and it’s as if some puzzle piece, so long missing, has appeared and locks into place. He feels connected to everyone and everything and especially to this man, who’s been there all this time, waiting for him just out of view, and Steve has just never realized it, never paid close enough attention. 

All the bitterness and hate he’s been feeling for Jack drains out of him, leaving him free and weightless. Suddenly he feels like he has to talk to this guy, has to make sure he doesn’t slip away again. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


Steve and Bucky look each other full in the face, next to the railing of the Staten Island Ferry on this beautiful summer morning. Their whole encounter so far has taken maybe five to seven minutes. Slowly they start smiling, their faces lit up with recognition and happiness. The sun sparkles on the water below them and the deep throb of the ferry engines vibrates at their feet. 

They are about to start toward each other when several things happen at once.

Bucky forgets his new weekend bag is at his feet and as he starts to move, he trips over it and loses his balance. 

As he trips, the loud, low horn of the ferry rips through the air across the harbor and the boat stops, or at least dramatically slows down, as if it’s trying to avoid hitting something that’s suddenly crossed its path. 

Steve lurches backward and just manages to catch himself against the railing. He hears the gasps and screams of the other passengers as they react to the sudden change in velocity. 

But he watches in what seems like slow-motion horror as Bucky, already off-balance, is thrown forward and lifted off his feet. Bucky’s left shoulder and arm - and maybe his head? Steve can’t be sure - hit the deck pillar hard and he tumbles over the railing and into the water below. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure if a big ferry boat like this one can actually pull a quick stop or a dramatic slowdown like a car would, but let’s go with it for the story, huh?


	9. Can’t We Just Stay There Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was wasted,” Steve says bluntly, brow crinkling and eyes glinting hard as he thinks of that night and why he got so drunk. 
> 
> Then his features soften and his mouth turns up a bit as he says, “But you helped me inside and took care of me and got me some aspirin and...”
> 
> “...and you kissed me,” Bucky interrupts again, his voice breathless. “And it was...”
> 
> “...the best kiss I ever had,” they both say in unison. They look at each other in surprise and delight, smiles lighting up their faces. Steve’s cheeks flush pink. 
> 
> And then they can’t stop looking. Bucky looks into Steve’s eyes - deep blue eyes, the color of the sky in spring - and sees his future there. His heart turns over in his chest.
> 
> ...in which our two favorite idiots finally really meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some fear and panic in a potentially dangerous situation

Steve has regained his balance and stands rooted on the ferry deck as he watches his angel hit the water with a splash. For a few seconds he looks over the railing and his brain can’t even process what’s happened, it’s so horrifying and scary. 

Then he hears someone behind him yell, “Oh my god, someone fell overboard!” and his mind starts working again and kicks him back into action.

Steve realizes that the fall wouldn’t cause the guy injury - their spot on the second deck isn’t that far above the water - but the splash where he fell in indicates that he’s dangerously close to the side of the huge ferry and he could get pulled under the boat. And beyond that, if he did hit his head on the pillar and get knocked unconscious, he could drown. 

And he reminds himself that this is THE guy, HIS guy - the one he’s been looking for all this time, the one he’s been waiting for. And he’s in danger.

All these realizations hit Steve in a second or two, and he doesn’t hesitate. He runs over to the inner ferry wall where there’s a cabinet marked LIFE JACKETS, wrenches it open, and grabs two. He loops them around his arm as he pelts toward the railing and hoists himself over it in one fluid motion. 

The water temperature isn’t too bad, but it’s cool enough that it’s a shock compared to the warm air of early September. Steve has also forgotten - if he ever knew - that the harbor water is brackish, so he spits salty as he surfaces. 

Steve looks around for the beautiful man and has a moment of panic when he can’t spot him, but soon catches sight of a white face, turned upward toward the sky, and a dark red shirt only six or seven feet from the hull. 

The ferry is still moving slower than normal (or has it stopped? It’s hard to tell) but Steve still doesn’t want the man to get pulled under the ship, so he swims quickly over and gently grabs the man over the chest and under the armpits and tows him away from the boat with strong strokes. The life jackets in his left hand make the swimming awkward, but their buoyancy also helps keep him and the other guy above water.

Truth be told, Steve is freaking out to be swimming that close to such a huge vessel, one that could kill them both very quickly and one that makes him feel so small and helpless. The fear rises up and chokes him.

But he keeps his head and moves them as far away from the boat as he judges is needed to keep them out of that danger. He also figures that if they’re a bit further from the ferry, the crew will see them and pick them up. Thank fuck the life jackets are orange and he wore this yellow shirt.

  
  
  


  
  
  


Everything happens so fast. One minute Bucky is on the ferry, about to talk to his dream man, the one he’s been waiting for all this time, and the next minute there’s some sort of freak time stoppage and he’s under water. The water isn’t freezing but it isn’t that warm either. For a few seconds he’s too stunned to move but by instinct kicks his legs to get to the surface. 

Bucky coughs and splutters as he hits the air and starts to breathe and it registers that he’s hurt his left arm. His shoulder and bicep ache intolerably. He must have banged it on something when...what happened? Oh yeah, the ferry suddenly stopped or decelerated and he lost his balance and... _ oh shit. _ He looks up and the boat looms above him, very close. 

He starts to panic and flails a bit, wondering if he should get closer to the boat to find a ladder or something (do ferries have ladders?) or to try to move away so more people can see him and he can get rescued. But his injured arm aches so much and he realizes very quickly that the flailing will only exhaust him so he stops and floats on the surface, eyes closed, breathing as calmly as he can, though he’s still coughing up a bit of water. 

As Bucky’s lying in the water near the boat, he feels a bit of a strange sensation like he’s detached from the situation, like he’s...well, not floating above his body or unconscious, but maybe a little like both? Is this hypothermia? It can’t be hypothermia, the water isn’t that cold. Oxygen deprivation? He wasn’t underwater that long. 

A feeling of smallness, of loneliness and desolation, overwhelms him. A grey fog rises up over his eyes and he gives up trying to think and gives in to the darkness .

  
  
  


  
  
  


Once they’re away from the boat, Steve takes a look at his rescue. The guy doesn’t look to be unconscious, but his eyes are closed and he’s coughing a little like swallowed some water when he fell in. With some difficulty Steve extricates a life jacket from under him and starts to lift the guy’s left arm.

“Uuuunnnnhhhh,” the man grunts in pain as Steve touches his left arm and Steve remembers that he’d hit that arm hard against the pillar. The shirt sleeve has ridden up a bit and Steve can see red marks and some swelling on the guy’s bicep, but thankfully no blood. There’s also major scarring all over his upper arm, which can’t have felt good to smash against a hard surface. 

“Sorry,” Steve says, trying as gently as he can to fit the jacket over the arm. “Just trying to get you into a life jacket. Does your arm feel broken or sprained at all?” 

“I...I don’t think so,” the man rasps out, his eyes still closed. He coughs again. Steve manages to get the life jacket over both arms and quickly ties it around the guy’s waist under water. He doesn’t want to let go of the man, but he must in order to get his own life jacket on. As soon as he breaks contact, the man cries, “What!! Wait?! Where are you?!?” and his eyes fly open. 

“Hey, it’s OK,” Steve says, quickly tying his jacket and grabbing the other man’s hand. “I’m right here, I’ve got you.” 

The guy’s beautiful blue-grey eyes focus and catch sight of Steve, and his face lights up in relief when he recognizes him. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


Bucky is pulled out of the greyness by a shooting pain in his left arm. He groans and someone apologizes and asks about his injury. He feels something warm over his chest and it registers that someone is in the water with him. A feeling of relief floods over him. He’s not alone, not abandoned - someone is with him and tying something around his waist.

And then that warmth disappears and Bucky panics. “What!! Wait?! Where are you?!?” he cries, opening his eyes and looking around wildly. “Hey, it’s OK,” he hears. “I’m right here, I’ve got you.” 

Someone grabs his hand and he focuses and sees the man from the ferry. His short blond hair is plastered to his head and he looks thoroughly waterlogged but regardless he’s the most beautiful sight Bucky has ever beheld. Bucky smiles weakly.

“It’s you,” he says, keeping his gaze focused on the blond’s face. “You...you saved me.”

The blond grins bashfully and rolls his eyes toward the sky. “You fell overboard,” he says. “I...I had to do something. I was so worried you’d hit your head...is your head OK, by the way?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, taking stock. “It’s just my shoulder and my arm.” 

“Well, the ferry will probably come pick us up,” the blond guy says. But just as he says that, the ferry horn sounds again, low and resonant across the harbor, and the boat picks up speed and starts chugging away from them. Bucky can hear people shouting from the ferry, but can’t make out what they’re saying. 

“What the fuck...” the guy swears as they both look toward the ferry, which is moving farther away from them by the second and veering off a bit to the left. 

Bucky is too dazed and tired to say anything out loud, and he tries hard not to freak out. There are only two of them, bobbing around on the waves, and it’s a big harbor. The sun has gone in behind a bank of cloud and everything looks greyer and drabber. Even with some other boat traffic around, and even wearing a life jacket, he feels alone and small and vulnerable. Maybe that big fancy white yacht over there, heading away from the ferry toward the southwest, will see them and pick them up. 

“Well, looks like we’re not getting rescued, not by the ferry at least,” the blond guy says, his voice threaded through with frustration. He looks around. His eyes rest thoughtfully on the big white sailboat for five or ten seconds, and then he turns back to Bucky. 

“Well, we’re kind of stuck in the middle of the harbor,” he says. He hesitates for a moment. “And I don’t think...I don’t think that huge yacht saw us. At least these life jackets show up in the water and I’m wearing a bright color shirt.” He cranes his neck in a few directions. “But it looks like we’re closest to Brooklyn. Think you can swim over there?” 

Bucky obediently starts to breast stroke in that direction, but pain shoots up his arm and he grunts and stops. “My arm,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“Oh shit, right,” the other guy says. “OK, well I can swim over there and get help...”

“No, please don’t leave me!” Bucky cries. The idea of being all alone, out here in the middle of the harbor, conjures up that sense of desolation and smallness again and he can’t bear it. 

“OK, OK,” the other man says in a soothing voice. “I’ll stay here.”

“Please don’t leave me,” Bucky gasps, choking out a sob. “I don’t want to be alone. Please...” 

“Of course,” says the guy. He grabs Bucky’s hand again. “Of course, my love.” The guy winces as he blurts that out, as if he’s inwardly cursing himself, but Bucky doesn’t mind. In fact, he likes it. 

They stay close together, bobbing on the small waves the breeze is kicking up on the harbor. 

“What’s your name?” Bucky’s rescuer asks, gently brushing Bucky’s hair out of his eyes. “I’m Steve.” 

“James. But please call me Bucky, all my friends do.”

“Hi, Bucky,” Steve says, looking full in Bucky’s eyes with a dazzling smile as he floats on the water. “I think I know you. Brooklyn Heights, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers softly. “I live on Montague Street.” 

“Funny,” says Steve, lighting up. “I live just up the road from you, on—”

“—Monroe Place, yeah, I know,” Bucky interrupts, flicking water out of his face as a small wave breaches over his life jacket. 

“I helped you into your apartment a few weeks ago,” Bucky continues. “You were on your front stoop and you were...kind of...uh...kind of indisposed.”

“I was wasted,” Steve says bluntly, brow crinkling and eyes glinting hard as he thinks of that night and why he got so drunk. 

Then his features soften and his mouth turns up a bit as he says, “But you helped me inside and took care of me and got me some aspirin and...”

“...and you kissed me,” Bucky interrupts again, his voice breathless. “And it was...”

“...the best kiss I ever had,” they both say in unison. They look at each other in surprise and delight, smiles lighting up their faces. Steve’s cheeks flush pink. 

And then they can’t stop looking. Bucky looks into Steve’s eyes - deep blue eyes, the color of the sky in spring - and sees his future there. His heart turns over in his chest.

Here is the person who will go out on dates with him, and stay in to watch bad movies with him, and listen when he’s having a bad day, and encourage him in his studies, and kiss him breathless, and hold him down and fuck him slow and relentless to take him apart, and cuddle with him afterward to put him back together again. 

Here, in short, is someone who will always be here with him, always be here  _ for _ him. Someone who won’t neglect him or bail on him and treat him with disdain and derision and act like that’s a normal thing for a lover to do.

Bucky’s mind casts back to that night after the fashion show during the thunderstorm, when he heard Nick’s story and felt connected to everyone and everything. And now he feels like that again, small as a drop of seawater and large as the city itself. His chest flutters.

This is the person he’s with in 20 or 30 years in Fury’s dream. This is where Bucky needs to be, with the person who’s going to make him happy. All the worries and doubts and sadness and heartache of the past year fall away and leave him with a shining certain hope that fills his heart to bursting.

“Steve,” he gasps, squeezing Steve’s hand under water, his eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his face soft as he gazes at Bucky. He’ll never get tired of looking at that face. “Yeah, Bucky. I know. Me too. Yes.” His words are awkward and don’t come close to what he wants to express, but he tries to send out his feelings through his eyes. 

Steve looks at Bucky and feels like everything in his life so far has led up to this moment and this moment is...inevitable. Irrevocable. 

Here is someone who won’t blow him off at the last minute, someone he can cherish and take care of. Someone who will encourage his ambitions and dreams, but who will also love him for who he is right now, no matter what. 

Just at this moment the sun peeks out from behind the clouds and a few of its rays shine on the couple in the water, illuminating their faces and the gentle waves around them and sparkling in their hair. They look up into the light in surprise and wonder, and then back at each other. 

Steve brings his other hand up out of the water to cup Bucky’s face and Bucky leans into the touch, feeling its warmth and certainty. He never wants to let Steve go. He never wants Steve to let him go. 

The feeling is devastating in the best possible way and he closes his eyes for a moment. 

“Stay with me, Steve,” Bucky says in the ghost of a voice. “Please stay.”

And he’s not just talking about holding his hand underwater in New York Harbor waiting to be rescued, either. He shivers, whether with emotion or with cold he doesn’t know. 

Steve knows what he means. In response, he kisses Bucky’s forehead and lets go of both his hand and his face to gather him into his arms.

“Always,” Steve murmurs, holding him tight. “ _ Always _ . I’m here, Bucky. I’m here.” And safe in Steve’s embrace, despite the fear and the cold and the wet and his aching arm, Bucky feels a glad peace envelop him. He could stay here forever, in this moment. 

They are so focused on each other that they hardly hear the helicopter overhead and don’t see the Coast Guard boat until it’s right next to them. 

  
  



	10. I’ve Been Waiting For You So Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve sit together on the deck of the Coast Guard patrol boat, its bright orange hull reflecting off the water as it motors slowly toward its station on Staten Island. They’ve gotten the chance to dry off a bit and are warming up out in the sun and under a couple of blankets. Under the blankets Steve has his arm draped gently but protectively around Bucky. Bucky’s right hand lays on Steve’s left leg and his head rests on Steve’s very solid shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief references to combat injuries in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Bucky and Steve sit together on the deck of the Coast Guard patrol boat, its bright orange hull reflecting off the water as it motors slowly toward its station on Staten Island. They’ve gotten the chance to dry off a bit and are warming up out in the sun and under a couple of blankets. Under the blankets Steve has his arm draped gently but protectively around Bucky. Bucky’s right hand lays on Steve’s left leg and his head rests on Steve’s very solid shoulder. 

The motor of the boat thrums under them and they can hear the Coasties inside the cabin, talking to each other and reporting back to the station. The news helicopter still hovers overhead and several private boats linger nearby. A few people on those boats are taking video, presumably either to post online and say they were there when it happened or to share with TV stations. 

Steve and Bucky pay them no attention. They are still wrapped up in each other, still caught up in the thrill and terror of the momentous event that has brought them together, still basking in the glow of having finally found one another. Their hair and clothes are still damp but they hardly notice the discomfort. 

Bucky angles his face down toward Steve’s shoulder. 

“Steve,” he whispers. Steve turns his head and lays a gentle kiss on Bucky’s hair. 

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, voice gravelly with emotion. “Sweetheart.” He rubs Bucky’s left shoulder and Bucky hisses. 

“Sorry, love,” Steve says, moving his hand. “We’ll have them look at your arm at the Coast Guard station.” 

Bucky tentatively moves his injured arm around. “It hurts, but it’s not broken,” he says. “I know what that feels like.” 

“That’s good,” says Steve, kissing the top of Bucky’s head again. “Maybe we can avoid the hospital then.” 

Bucky panics a little at the thought of going to the hospital and presses more firmly against Steve’s side. But he doesn’t worry about going through that alone, because he knows Steve will be there with him. 

Steve knows exactly what Bucky is thinking and reaches over to squeeze his hand under the blanket in reassurance. Bucky sighs and closes his eyes, reveling in the warmth of the sun and of Steve at his side.

  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


When Steve and Bucky reach the Coast Guard station, they’re escorted inside and taken immediately to an exam room. The medical officer on duty has Bucky sit on the table and take off his shirt to look at his injury. Bucky sucks in his breath as the medic gently prods his arm, then asks him to move it around from the shoulder. This Bucky does without too much pain. 

Steve sits on Bucky’s other side in a chair, his hand gentle but possessive over Bucky’s right hand as it rests on the table. 

“Doesn’t seem to be any broken bones,” says the medic. “Just some fairly serious bruising...” He feels around the bruises. “Lotta scar tissue in here. Car accident? Did you break it before?” 

“Improvised IED. Kandahar. Three years ago,” Bucky says shortly and while he’s ostensibly talking to the medic, he turns his head toward Steve. “It doesn’t feel broken. I should know, it was broken in five pieces then. There’s a metal rod next to the humerus, that’s harder to break.” Steve’s eyes darken and he clutches Bucky’s hand tighter. 

“No shit,” says the medic. “I did a tour in Iraq way back when. Mostly in Fallujah.” He wipes down Bucky’s arm and shoulder with an alcohol wipe and wraps it securely in gauze. “Mostly this bandage is just to remind you to be careful with it. Don’t use it for a week or two. Don’t lift heavy stuff. Skip bench pressing day at the gym.” 

The medic smiles and pulls a large bottle from his dispensary cabinet, from which he tips a number of pills into a smaller container. 

“Toradol,” he says, handing the small bottle to Bucky. “Take it twice a day for the next few days. If there’s a lot of swelling or more pain or you start to run a fever, you need to go to the doctor, OK?” He gives Bucky a pill for now with a Dixie cup full of water. 

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky says, and Steve stands up and shakes the medic’s hand. 

“Let me take you down the hall to the officer on duty, take your statements on the incident and get the paperwork done so we can get you home,” the medic says, helping Bucky up and handing both him and Steve USCG t-shirts. “Not as nice as your original shirts,” he says, grinning. “But a bit drier.” 

After he’s changed his shirt, Steve looks at the medic’s nametag and his uniform. “Lieutenant Riley,” he says, standing at full attention. “We really appreciate this.” The medic eyes him speculatively, almost like he’s looking at him for the first time.

“You’re ex-military too, huh,” Riley says. 

Steve nods. “Special Forces,” he says curtly. His time in the military is not something he talks about often.

Both Riley and Bucky’s eyes widen for a moment and Riley escorts them out of the room. As they walk down the hall, Bucky murmurs, “Steve, we’re gonna hafta have a long chat about all this very soon.”

“Yeah? Well, we have all the time in the world, sweetheart,” Steve growls under this breath and possessively grabs Bucky’s hand again. They walk into the CO’s office, passing through a door with a sign that says “Captain Maria Rambeau.” 

  
  
  


  
  
  


“Yeah, turn right, it’s just down this street,” Steve directs the Coast Guard driver, the same PFC who went to get Bucky’s overnight bag from the office at the Staten Island ferry terminal. He and Bucky are sitting in the back of the official car, Bucky’s bag at his feet. 

The car pulls up in front of Steve’s apartment, and Bucky looks at the front stoop and remembers that hot, humid night last month when he saw Steve, asleep on the fourth step. He smiles. 

Steve has been holding Bucky’s hand through the entire car ride from Staten Island, but since they gave their statements and signed the incident paperwork, he’s been quiet. As they both recover from the accident and the world-shattering epiphanies of the morning, he’s started to doubt himself. 

Did all that really happen? Is he really Bucky’s soulmate? Does Bucky really want him around, or was he just being nice because Steve rescued him? Steve is absolutely and entirely smitten, but he’s not sure how Bucky is feeling right now.

Bucky has also been quiet, but that’s mostly because he’s exhausted and currently surfing a Toradol wave. But his eyes are bright and his heart is full and he slides his gaze toward Steve as the car stops at the curb. 

The young Coast Guard private shoves the car into neutral and hurries around to open Steve’s door for him. The heat of the full midday sun pours into the backseat. 

“Here you are, Captain Rogers,” he says, standing at attention. 

Steve turns pink and looks up at the young man.

“At ease, Private Leeds, it’s just Steve now,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He turns to Bucky, unsure about how this is going to go. 

Private Leeds starts to say, “Sergeant Barnes, I can drop you off at your place down the street...” when Bucky cuts him off. 

“That’s OK, Private Leeds, I can manage from here, it’s only a couple blocks,” he says, gently but firmly and raises his eyebrows at Steve as if daring him to object. 

“Are you sure, Captain Rambeau said...” Leeds starts but Bucky interrupts him again.

“Absolutely sure, thank you so much, Leeds,” says Bucky, nudging at Steve to get out of the car. He follows Steve, grabbing his overnight bag. They say thanks again and wave goodbye a minute later as Private Leeds drives off. 

Steve, now feeling a little awkward and embarrassed, turns to Bucky. It’s hot and their clothes and shoes are still a little damp and smell like saltwater. Monroe Place is empty and the heat is shimmering up from the pavement. 

“Are you sure you want to walk home from here, Bucky?” he asks. He reaches out for the bag. “I can walk you home and carry your bag for you, it’s no problem...” 

Bucky looks at Steve and his beautiful mouth quirks upward. 

“I don’t want you to walk me home, Steve,” he says, quiet but assured.

“Oh, OK.” Steve seems to deflate a little but he’s ready to be stoic and pretend like everything is fine. Bucky just wants to be alone. It’s fine. Very fine.  _ So _ fine. 

“I want you to take me upstairs to your place so I can spend the weekend with you,” Bucky says, his voice casual but with a glint in his eye. 

Steve looks a little taken aback. “What?” he says, trying to process what he’s just heard against the doubts and worst-case scenarios he was playing out in his head. Bucky faces him, still quietly confident, his eyes sparkling. 

“‘Always.’ You said ‘Always’ this morning, right? In the middle of the harbor? When I asked if you’d stay with me?” Bucky continues, handing his bag to Steve. “You promised, and you seem like a guy who keeps his promises. I feel like we’ve got a lot of ‘Always’ to live, Steve, and I really want us to start right now.”

Bucky reaches out with his good arm to caress Steve’s shoulder. “How about you, Steve? What do you want?” 

Steve’s eyes darken. He drops the bag on the ground and pulls Bucky to him until their faces are only a couple of inches apart. He looks in wonder at Bucky’s face and gently tucks a dark curl behind his ear. 

“Bucky,” he whispers, his chest clenching. “I want you. Always. Bucky.” 

“Steve,” Bucky whispers back and leans forward. Their lips meet in a sweet kiss, a kiss laden with promise, the promise of time, of connection, of ups and downs, of a thousand more kisses to come. The promise of deep, everlasting love. The promise of a lifetime together. 

After a minute they reluctantly pull back, though Steve can’t help going back in for another brief kiss. Bucky’s lips are soft and still a little salty from their morning adventure, and Steve gently licks some of that salt off Bucky’s bottom lip, reveling a little in the noise that issues from Bucky’s throat as he does so.

“So,” Bucky says, looking up at Steve, snug in his arms. “I’m hungry and tired and covered in dirty saltwater. Should we take a shower first or get takeout first? And then I definitely need a nap.” 

Steve kisses his forehead and leans down to pick up the bag before attaching his left arm firmly to Bucky’s waist. They walk up the stairs through the front door of Steve’s building, side by side. 

“We could each eat our takeout in the shower, kill two birds with one stone,” Steve says, deadpan, teasing, after he unlocks the front door and as they head up the stairs to his apartment. 

“Oh, so your shower is big enough for two  _ and _ a tray of burgers and fries?” Bucky shoots back, grinning, his eyes dancing. “That’s impressive.”

Steve’s eyes darken again and he stops in front of his apartment door to pull Bucky close, thread his fingers through Bucky’s hair, and lay a searing kiss on his mouth, their bodies pressed together. 

“I think the takeout can wait,” he murmurs. 

  
❤️❤️❤️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The US Coast Guard is amazing but I’m not sure that they have an on-call medic at their New York station. No hospitals for Bucky, though, he’s been through enough. 
> 
> PFC stands for “private first class” and a CO is a commanding officer. 
> 
> This is the happy ending/beginning our heroes deserve but there is one more chapter to tie up loose ends in an epilogue.


	11. Epilogue: I’ll Tie Us Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury pauses the TV and leans in to study the image critically for a minute. The picture quality isn’t great but even so he can tell it’s Bucky and this Steve Rogers guy he’s been tracking on Facebook and Instagram these last few months. Rogers appears to be holding Bucky tight and despite his recent ordeal, Bucky looks serene and…very, very happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brock Rumlow - still and always an asshole

Bucky and Steve are facing southeast as the rescue boat ferries them toward the Coast Guard station on Staten Island, basking in the sun, so they don’t see the gleaming white yacht about half a mile behind them in the harbor, forced to stop and anchor in the middle of New York Bay near the ports of Bayonne. 

Next to it looms a large Coast Guard patrol ship and a smaller NYPD boat is anchored on the other side. Several officers of both forces stand on the yacht deck, questioning the two men on board - an older blond man and his younger, darker-haired companion. 

Eventually the authorities will charge Alexander Pierce and Jack Rollins with reckless boating, endangerment of a New York City vessel, and injury to innocent civilians. The penalty for these infractions is a fine of up to a million dollars and a potential sentence of up to two years in prison, as well as impoundment and potential loss of watercraft.

Pierce’s riches will buy the two men the best defense lawyers, who will get the felony charges dismissed and thus prevent Jack’s disbarment. But the two will still be forced by the judge to pay a quarter of a million dollars and perform 500 hours of community service. 

Jack will not be disbarred, but his law firm will take him off the partner track and he’ll switch careers to become general counsel for Pierce’s hedge fund, Hydra Advisors. Jack and Pierce will marry a year later, but divorce within 18 months after Jack comes home unexpectedly to find Pierce in bed with a 25-year-old MBA student. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


As Steve and Bucky walk into Captain Rambeau’s office at the Coast Guard station after getting rescued on Saturday morning, a few miles away at the Staten Island Ferry terminal at St. George, Brock Rumlow shoves his phone into his pocket and starts stalking back to his rental car in a rage. He’s been waiting for Bucky for hours (OK, in reality, it’s been more like 45 minutes) and Bucky hasn’t shown up on either of the ferries that have docked since Brock got there.

_ What is this bullshit, _ Brock thinks as he turns away from the ferry terminal, dodging passengers who are chattering happily as they meet up with family and friends. Bucky has never stood him up like this before, especially without a text or a frantically apologetic phone call.  _ The fuckin nerve of his boyfriend, what the fuck! _

Brock being Brock, he is furious at Bucky’s “rudeness” in not showing up on time this morning, but of course all the times he canceled on Bucky or blew him off were just “work emergencies.” And if some of those “work emergencies” have involved hookups with hot guys from the shows he produces or taking Juan Pablo to Ibiza for the weekend, that’s no one’s business but Brock’s. 

And, in fact, Brock should get back to his borrowed house and clean up the remnants of last night’s party before Bucky decides to show up. He smirks as he thinks of the fun he had last night with the gorgeous twink he picked up Thursday night at the Carly Rae concert and his friends. He took them to the ferry early this morning so Bucky wouldn’t see them. Bucky won’t be as fun as that crowd, but he is a pretty decent lay and it’s a good ego boost that he’s so blindly adoring, so the weekend shouldn’t be a total waste.  _ If _ that idiot ever gets here. 

Brock almost collides with a shorter guy who’s coming out of a Port Authority office carrying a brown Shinola leather weekend bag. He’s about to tear the guy a new one for getting in his way, but when he actually looks at him, Brock sees that he’s wearing a crisp Coast Guard uniform. 

As much as he’d love to bawl him out, Brock realizes that it would make him look like a complete asshole to yell at a member of the armed services in front of all these people. So he settles for hissing “Watch where you’re going, punk” at him under his breath.

“Sorry, sir,” the young Coastie says, and scurries off to an official-looking vehicle. A tiny piece of Brock’s mind wonders briefly how this kid could afford such an expensive piece of luggage, but he’s too pissed off at Bucky to pursue this train of thought. Brock gets in the car, pulls out his phone to send one last irate text to his boyfriend, and peels out of the parking lot. 

Later that day Brock sees the footage of the ferry incident, both on Instagram and NY1, and his blood boils over again. How dare Bucky be so clumsy and fall in the fucking harbor! And how dare he get rescued by a really hot blond guy! 

He spends the next hour sending expletive-laden texts and angry voice mails to his worthless cheating boyfriend, telling Bucky that if he ever wants to get back on Brock’s good side he should get over to the borrowed Staten Island house and do some serious groveling. In one of the voice mails he’s so riled up that he threatens to come over to Bucky’s apartment and “beat some sense into you.” 

Bucky’s phone is currently at the bottom of New York Harbor, but when he gets a new iPhone on the Tuesday after the long weekend, he’ll see the five voice mails and 25 texts from Brock from over the weekend. Being a nice and conscientious person - perhaps  _ too _ nice and conscientious - Bucky will listen to all of them, his face turning increasingly white. 

When Steve sees this, he’ll gently take the phone from Bucky and listen to the voice mails. He’ll ask Bucky if Bucky minds Steve handling this, and when Bucky shakes his head no, he’ll dial Brock’s number and in a calm voice that is nevertheless threaded with steel, he’ll immediately tell Brock to stop calling and leave Bucky alone for good. 

As Brock starts yelling, Steve will cut him off and inform him that his threat to “beat some sense” into Bucky constitutes a threat of grievous bodily harm and is ample evidence for a restraining order and possibly even a criminal threat and menacing charge, which in New York carries a maximum sentence of four years in prison. 

“I’m sure a savvy man of the world like you would rather avoid spending time in prison, away from your friends and your pickups and your cushy job,” Steve will finish in a low growl. “So if you have any sense at all, you’ll move on with your life and forget all about Bucky Barnes.” 

And as Brock sputters on the other end of the phone, Steve will hang up on him and let Bucky do the honors of blocking his number and erasing Brock Rumlow from his Contacts. Then Steve will hold Bucky close as Bucky cries, mourning the end of that relationship but mostly mourning the care and love and attention and anguish he expended on someone so unworthy. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


“C’mere, pups, come on! C’mere!”

Nick Fury sits on his living room floor on Saturday morning and peeks over the side of the box, making kissy noises at Bella’s puppies. They are less than two weeks old and just starting to open their eyes, milky blue, still sightless. Bella lies in the box next to them, happily accepting Nick’s head skritches.

“C’mere, little ones!” Nick drapes his arm over the box and makes little finger snaps while clicking his tongue. The puppies can hear but they don’t have the best sense of direction yet, and they still can’t fully stand up. But they crawl over each other and mew, trying to figure out what to do with the new stimuli being presented to them.

After a few minutes, the tan and white pup manages to crawl a few inches and drunkenly brushes Fury’s hand with its snout. 

Fury smiles and picks up the puppy to kiss its little fuzzy head. Here is the pup for Bucky. Fury had suspected this was the one, but this confirms it. It’s a sign. 

The puppy squeaks and Nick holds it close for a minute before putting it back in the box, where it quickly falls asleep after all the excitement. Nick takes a few photos of the puppies and crops one of them to just the tan and white one. He’ll text it to Bucky on Monday night after Bucky’s back from his Staten Island weekend. 

Fury still shakes his head over that whole... _ situation _ ...with Bucky and Brock, but he’s done all he can about it and now there’s nothing to do but wait and hope. He pats Bella’s head one more time and then stands up to get a cold drink. It’s only 10 am but it’s already pretty hot outside and his window A/C units can only do so much to take the heat out of the house. 

He grabs a Coke out of the fridge, which undoubtedly Bucky would have something to say about, but Fury figures he’s old and he gets to do what he wants. And also Bucky’s not here to criticize. He takes a sip and sits down at his monitor to check his social media feeds. 

After a minute or two of scrolling Twitter, Fury’s eye catches on something that’s trending locally in New York. A city news tweet headline screams out STATEN ISLAND FERRY ACCIDENT in all caps. He clicks on the hashtag #StatenIslandOverboard and leans forward, his heart in his throat. 

The online video is too grainy and too far away to see anything except the giant vessel, almost stationary in the harbor, a gleaming white yacht sailing away from it and two minute orange specks in the water not far from the ferry. Even with his glasses, Fury can’t make out much of anything.

He swivels in his seat, grabs the remote, and turns on the TV to NY1. 

“...breaking news from New York Harbor, where the Staten Island Ferry nearly collided with another vessel. Amanda Farinacci has details.”

An attractive blonde lady in a red blouse stands in front of the entrance to the Coast Guard station on Staten Island.

“A Staten Island ferry boat on its regular 8.30 AM trip from Manhattan had to slow down suddenly and dramatically in the middle of the harbor to avoid hitting a private yacht,” the woman says into her microphone. “Witnesses report that the other boat, which was running parallel to the ferry, suddenly veered in front of the vessel.” 

On screen appears the same grainy online video, obviously taken from a helicopter, of the ferry, the yacht, and the two orange specks. 

“A spokesperson for the New York City DOT, which runs the ferry service, says that the two sailors on the private yacht, Alexander Pierce and Jack Rollins of Manhattan, were taken into custody for reckless boating and several other charges,” says Farinacci in voiceover, as helicopter video footage of two men being escorted off the huge white yacht in handcuffs shows onscreen. 

“The sudden braking of the ferry resulted in minor injuries for eight people on board,” Farinacci continues. “However, witnesses report that one person fell overboard during the incident, and another jumped in to save him.”

The screen switches to new footage which is obviously taken from a boat and obviously someone’s amateur iPhone video, a bit jumpy from the waves and zoomed in as much as possible. 

“Video shared with New York 1 by Anthony DeLillo of Brooklyn, who was out in his personal watercraft at the time, shows two men, pulled out of the water by the Coast Guard,” Farinacci’s voice continues. Fury leans in toward the TV screen. 

The video clearly shows two men, one with short blond hair and one with shoulder-length dark brown hair, sitting together in the sun and covered with regulation blankets. Their hair is wet and their faces are serious, but they don’t appear to be injured. The brunet rests his head on the blond’s shoulder, his eyes closed. After fifteen or twenty seconds, the blond turns his head, burying his face gently in the other man’s hair. 

“These two men have yet to be identified,” Farinacci’s voiceover goes on, “But the Coast Guard announced that Captain Maria Rambeau, commanding officer at the Staten Island station, will hold a press conference at 11 AM, so we’ll have more details at that time.” 

Fury pauses the TV and leans in to study the image critically for a minute. The picture quality isn’t great but even so he can tell it’s Bucky and this Steve Rogers guy he’s been tracking on Facebook and Instagram these last few months. Rogers appears to be holding Bucky tight and despite his recent ordeal, Bucky’s face looks serene and…very, very happy. 

Fury pushes his chair back from the TV screen and takes a sip of his Coke. He looks across the living room at Bella and the puppies in the box, then exhales in relief, slumping in his chair and dropping his head forward to look at the floor. His eyes are shiny and his heart is full. 

  
  


THE END

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The US Coast Guard is amazing but I doubt that they would pick up a bag for you from the Staten Island Ferry lost and found office, but let’s go with it. Again, Bucky’s been through enough and deserves to get his stuff back.
> 
> New York does have laws against issuing criminal threats against someone and menacing them, but I couldn’t find any sentencing guidelines so I just made that part up. Hey, Steve’s a lawyer, he would know. ;-)
> 
> Amanda Farinacci is an actual reporter for NY1 and her reporting is probably a lot better than how I wrote it. 
> 
> You all, it has been a wonderful journey writing this story and sharing it with you! Thank you for reading! And thanks again to the ever-astounding AlpacaKittens and my friend Krista for their invaluable contributions and encouragement. Please leave comments and kudos - I love hearing from everyone. Sending hugs and love and hope for the future. ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> The main title and chapter titles are taken from “Snowed in at Wheeler Street,” by Kate Bush. I made a Spotify mix to accompany this story and you can listen to it [ here](%E2%80%9C).
> 
> I used real places in Brooklyn Heights for Steve and Bucky’s apartments, but fudged it a bit so grad students could afford to live there. This is fantasy, after all! 
> 
> I tried to follow the actual New York bar exam schedule, which states that the test is only held in late July and February.


End file.
